the circular solitude of my heart
by acid.glue234
Summary: It's all Quinn. Quinn, with her golden hair and hazel eyes. Quinn, with her nasally voice and pink lips. Quinn, with her crooked smile and charming words. You can't be trusted around girls like Quinn. Somehow, you always end up doing something stupid, something brainless, something emotionally harmful, to both the girl and yourself.
1. Para Usted

**A/N: **First time writing Quinntana. I'm not done with Spanner yet, so don't worry. I'll get back to that soon. Just wanted to try my hand at something new and more challenging.

Some of the dialogue is in Spanish, but it's not really necessary to translate it considering Santana doesn't understand what's being said either. Also, the town of Mexico that Santana is visiting is totally made up.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Para Usted**

"Before you go outside, put on the sun block I packed. It should be in the pocket inside your blue suitcase."

"Okay, Ma."

"And your cell phone, make sure you keep it charged just in case I need to get into contact with you."

"Okay, Ma."

"Did you program your number into Abuelita's phone?"

"Yes, Ma."

"Just one more thing."

"Mhmm."

"Actually spend some time with her, Santana."

"Okay, Ma."

"No, don't _okay, Ma_ me. Get off that laptop of yours and spend some actual time with your grandmother," she demands, and you roll your eyes, because her voice is even more nagging when it's seven hundred miles away.

"I'm not on my laptop," you mutter guiltily, shutting your laptop and pushing it across the kitchen table.

"The reason we sent you down there in the first place is so you can get to know her better and learn about your roots."

"And because I got caught shoplifting at a drug store," you add on, shrugging a shoulder as you admire your nails. "Which wasn't even my fault."

Your mother sighs and ignores your complaining, continuing with, "Have you even spoken three words to her yet?"

Craning your neck, you glance down the hallway of your abuelita's small home and find her sleeping soundly in her napping chair. Her head is bent back, mouth wide open, and you grimace when a drop of drool pools out of her mouth and slowly slides down her jaw.

"I said _hola_ when she first opened the door," you mention offhandedly, furrowing your eyebrows when one of her eyes begin to slowly open in her sleep.

"That's it?"

You huff, rubbing the back of your sweaty neck in disgust, because it's hot as balls in here. "I can't understand a word she says, Ma," you tell her, getting up from the kitchen chair as you head out of the house to stand on the front porch. "She speaks way too fast, and I just can't keep up no matter how Mexican I am."

"Then I suppose this is a good time to brush up on your Spanish."

"No, this is a good time to send me a plane ticket so I can get out of this humid hellhole."

Despite your agony, you mother actually laughs. She doesn't care about you or your well-being, or else she wouldn't have sent you to this horrible place.

(Her laughter is enough proof she's enjoying this way too much.)

You've only been here for a day and a half and you already think you're going to go insane if you spend another minute in this shack they call a house. Last night, you were forced to sleep on a soggy mattress that spelled like old cows. You tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable because of the sweltering heat.

And that damn bird. It took you what felt like hours to fall asleep, and when you finally did, some damn bird outside your window started chirping an annoyingly cheery song that made you want to pull your hair out of your scalp.

Although Santo Amor, the small town of Mexico your abuelita's from, is beautifully exotic and only about a half mile away from the shore, it's also one of the poorest areas in this part of Mexico.

The streets are unpaved and ragged. People hang around outside on their porches, hoping to get away from the swirling heat melting the inside of their homes. Men walk around without shirts all of the time, their tanned chests red and burnt by the end of the day from being out in the hot sun for so long.

Little boys play soccer in the grassy fields. You watch them as they kick the ball around with their bare feet. The houses are so close together, you can hear the mother's muffled voices scolding their sons for their dirty toes in the evenings.

You're envious to admit some of them are better than your own teammates back home in Houston, and their only about seven or eight years old.

If you thought Houston was hot during the summer months, well, Mexico is about ten thousand times that. You can feel sweat everywhere, pooling between your breasts, under your armpits, in your hair, even between your toes. Good thing it's just you and your abuelita staying in this house for the summer, because you're sure you smell like shit right now.

"Santana?"

"Hm?"

"If you're so vain that you actually think some girl down there will care about your odor, just take a bath."

Quirking an eyebrow, because did you just say all of that aloud, you sit on the bottom step of the porch and mumble, "Even if I did meet a girl down here, I'd probably have to pretend like I know what she's talking about half the time, which is usually what I do anyway, so..."

"Concentrate on understanding your abuelita before flirting with some town girl," your mother continues to tease you, chuckling into the speaker. "And before I go, let me speak to her real quick?"

"She's sleeping."

"Wake her up," she says flippantly. Sometimes you forget you are your mother's daughter.

(The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.)

Dramatically huffing as you stand back up, you stomp up the wooden steps and push through the thin screen door, wincing when it slams loudly behind you.

"¡Si usted rompe mi puerta, usted está pagando por ello!"

"She's awake," you mutter into the phone, dragging yourself down the hallway until you're standing in front of your barely awake abuelita who's sleepily glaring at you like you just stole her last peso. "It's Ma. She wants to talk to you."

"¿Qué?" Abuelita sits up in her napping chair, head cocked to the side.

"Ma...it's Ma," you say a little louder, hoping the increase in volume will help her understand.

Abuelita just stares at you for a moment, looking back and forth between you and your cell phone. "¿Qué?" she mumbles eventually, raising an eyebrow.

Sighing, you pull your phone away from your ear and point at it. "Es mi madre. Um, she quiero habla to you," you slowly tell her in your best Spanish. If anybody else saw this, you're sure you'd look like a total moron; you can't even say a simple sentence in your family's native language.

Both your parents know how to speak it, almost all of your cousins, and even your older brother, who learned overseas when he went to Spain for some college exchange program. You've always refused to learn, thinking you'd never have to use it, that it'd just be a waste of your very limited time.

(Well, it seems that came back to bite you in the ass.)

"¿Qué?" Abuelita's still staring at you like you're speaking another language, which you suppose you kind of are. "For...me?" she questions, pointing at the phone you're pointing at.

A slow smile cracks across your cheeks. "Sí, sí," you say, nodding your head and feeling oddly proud that you and your grandmother are actually communicating for the first time.

(This is going to be a long summer.)

"Santana," you hear, coming from the speaker of your cell. "Just give her the damn phone."

Rolling your eyes, because why didn't you think of that, you hand your abuelita the phone with a huff and watch as a broad grin forms on her lips. She starts talking a mile a minute, chatting on the phone like she's been dying to talk to someone who's not stupid for days now. Her native language rolls off her tongue as she laughs and sighs and chuckles, and you're not sure, but you have a feeling they're probably making fun of you.

When Abuelita speaks, it's actually quite beautiful to listen to; Spanish is the language of romance after all. You don't even feel bad for eavesdropping, because you can't understand a word she's saying anyway. You think you may catch your name in their every now and then, but she could easily be saying _mañana_, which just makes you dread what you'll be doing tomorrow.

(Your abuelita is your father's mother. Your mother and Abuelita are really close though; closer than most mother and daughter-in-laws.)

After what feels like a century (your abuelita can really talk when she wants to), she hangs up the phone and hands it back to you. With a hesitant smile, you tuck it back into your jeans and stand there, waiting for her to say something.

Abuelita looks up at you, her eyebrows raised in contemplation, and you wonder what her and your mother just discussed, because this is the first time she's looked so deep in thought since you arrived yesterday morning. You would go back outside and sit on the porch, but it's already getting dark out, and there's no streetlights, so you're pretty sure that could be kind of dangerous.

You've spent your first day of the summer in Mexico doing literally nothing. When you woke up at about five o'clock because of the heat and that damn bird, you went straight into the kitchen and started up your laptop. There's no internet connection, so you just began typing random things about how messed up this trip is and a bunch of other teenage angst stuff.

After awhile, the complaints you were typing up slowly turned into what looked like a journal of your stay, so after a second of thought, you decided to keep a journal of the rest of your visit. You know your mom will be proud you did something productive while you were down here, and it could also be good for your college essay, so you thought, why not?

You're staring contest goes on for what feels like another fifteen seconds before your grandma abruptly stands from her chair, startling you into taking a step back. She's a few inches shorter than you, which is strange, because you're so short no one is ever shorter than you, but you do find it a little amusing when she sets you with a glare before turning towards the kitchen, yelling, _"Viene ahora!"_ over her shoulder.

She breezes around the kitchen like a storm, pulling fresh lettuce out of the refrigerator, taking seasonings and spices and a bag of yellow rice out of the cupboard, and throwing down a giant fish on the counter right in front of where you're sitting. You turn your nose up at the dead sea creature and raise an eyebrow at your grandma when she places a knife in your hand and points at the fish's head.

"Are you loco?" you mutter dryly, slowly placing the sharp knife on the countertop. "Yo no sé cook fish, Abuelita."

"You learn," she says firmly, grabbing the knife, and right before your eyes, your little abuelita brings the knife up high in the air and stabs the fish right in its eyeball, causing blood to spurt out and splatter across your sweaty white tank top. You don't even get a chance to feel disgusted before the knife is being placed into your hand again as your grandma smiles wickedly and says, "Now you."

* * *

Most of your cousins live on the other side of town. You don't know them. And you don't want to know them.

A long time ago, before your father was even born and your grandmother was a _niña poco_ living here in Mexico, she married a fisherman when she was supposed to marry a boat keeper. Personally, you don't really see the difference or what the big deal is. She loved the fisherman even if he probably smelled worse than you right now, so she ran off a whole two miles across town and got married to Jose, your late grandfather.

You're not really sure how that worked, because they all still lived in the same town, just on opposite ends. Back then, two miles might have seemed far away, but you can run two miles in your sleep. They must have seen each other at the markets, at church, on the beach, everywhere. You can barely stand it when you see your ex-girlfriend at the mall, so you have no idea how your abuelita could keep going about her daily life whenever she saw her ex-fiancé.

But you doubt your abuelita loved the boat keeper as much as you loved Skye.

Skye.

(You don't really want to talk about it.)

Jose, your brother, who was named after Abuelo, obviously, says your abuelita kept her maiden name instead of taking her husband's name like most women did. Sure, she was proud of her decision to follow her heart, but according to Jose, your brother, Abuelita kept her name out of guilt.

(But your brother used to say a lot of things, so.)

You don't really mind not seeing your cousins. You probably wouldn't be able to understand them anyway. It's getting easier to understand your abuelita though. She mostly speaks in broken English, and you have to look up some words in your Spanish dictionary when she says a word you don't get, but over the last couple of days, it's been getting easier.

You're proud to say your Spanish has been improving, sorta. It's kind of hard _not_ to when the language practically surrounds you everywhere you turn. Yesterday, when you went to the market on your own to pick up some papaya, mangos, and bread, you had the most complicated discussion with a salesclerk. Ultimately, you think he hustled you into paying extra for the lump that was stuck to the side of your papaya, but at least you got out of there with enough money in your pocket to buy a pack of cigarettes.

You're smoking one of the cigarettes now as you sit on the front porch and watch a group of little boys kick around a soccer ball in the dirt. You don't mean to sound egotistical or anything, or maybe you do, but you can kick circles around these boys. If you weren't here right now because of some stupid toddler at a drug store who likes to rat out thieves, you'd be at one of the best soccer camps in the country.

But instead, you're here, slowly killing your lungs in the Mexican heat.

It's still blistering hot, as usual, and you know you're not making it any easier on yourself by smoking this cigarette, but you've been craving the stuff ever since you got here, and your abuelita doesn't seem to mind, so.

When she saw you pull out the pack while putting away the food, she actually asked for one in exchanged for keeping it a secret from your mother. You're not sure if it was more of a secret pact between the two of you, or if she was just blackmailing you for some cigs, but you had just shrugged and handed her one, because it was her money you spent it on anyway.

"Carlos, por aquí," a fairly skinny boy shouts, jumping up and down near the sticks and string that's suppose to serve as a goal. "Estoy abierto!"

You pull the cigarette away from your lips and blow out the smoke through your flared nostrils, curiously watching the other boys ignore him and continue to play. Carlos, the boy who seems to be the best out of them all, dribbles the ball back and forth between his feet, smiling cockily as he runs right past the skinny boy and kicks the ball into the goal.

The soccer ball hits one of the sticks, causing the whole goal to fall apart. All of the boys groan, throwing their hands up in exasperation as they shout expletives in Spanish, but Carlos just laughs at the destruction of sticks and ropes like it's all a big joke to him.

"Son of a bitch," you mumble, holding the smoking cigarette between your fingers as it starts to burn out.

You study the skinny boy; his dark curly locks, hairless chest, big brown eyes. As he kicks his shoes at the dirt in frustration, he kind of reminds you of your older brother when he was a kid.

(Scrawny, short, clumsy, awkward.)

As he got older, he became stronger. Too bad wisdom doesn't come with age like some people say because as your brother got older, he didn't just get stronger, but he got dumber as well. Only a dummy would do the things he has and not learn his lesson after being behind bars.

Twice.

You hum a song under your breath after blowing out a puff of smoke. The song is familiar, but you're not sure where from. You picture yourself at home, sitting on the couch next to Jose, your brother, not your abuelo, as you watch a Disney movie. You can't remember the name of the film at the moment, but that skinny boy, the one who likes to kick at dirt, looks just like Mowgli; the wild child from the movie with that tiger and the bare necessities or something.

(Whatever, it'll come to you later.)

Mowgli seems to be the outcast of the group, and you watch him with a frown as he stares at the pile of sticks and slumps his shoulders before heading off in the opposite direction.

You look after him with a roll of your eyes, because damn, why do you even care? You seem to have an internal battle with yourself. Muttering under your breath, you sigh through your nose and stand up from the porch.

The boy just looks so sad and lonely, much like yourself, and you don't have anything else to do anyway, so you throw your finished cigarette into the dirt and stomp on it before following after the boy. The sun is already starting to set, and it's pretty dangerous at night, so you just want to make sure he gets home all right.

(At least, that's what you try to tell yourself.)

"Hey, kid!" you yell, speeding up into a jog. Mowgli doesn't turn around, continuing to scuff his shoes in the dirt with his shoulders slouched as he passes greedy merchants and old, homeless men and crazy bums on the street. Searching your brain for something Spanish to say, you continue to approach him and shout, "Esperar hasta, muchacho!"

Mowgli finally peeks over his shoulder, and when he sees you quickly approaching, his brown eyes widen, and he picks up speed as well, shuffling his feet hurriedly to get away from you.

You curse under breath when the boy starts running full speed ahead. You're not going to be that creep who chases kids all the way home, so you say fuck it. If the kid doesn't want your help, then you'll let him get mugged, but right when you're about to turn away, Mowgli trips over his untied shoelaces and falls to the dirt, scraping his knee on the hard ground.

"Fuck me sideways," you sigh, jogging up to the boy. He still looks a little frightened as you crouch down in front of him to take a look at his knee, but when he seems to realize you just want to help, his heavy breathing slowly calms down. He looks at you with wide, thoughtful eyes as you inspect the gash closely; the scrape's not too deep, just a little blood trickling down his leg.

Your father's a doctor, and whenever you'd get hurt playing soccer out in the backyard, he'd check your cuts closely. If there weren't any flesh or bones sticking out, he'd just say, _"You're fine. Go back out there and get 'em, tiger,"_ and ruffle up your hair before giving you a thumbs up.

"¿Por qué me estás siguiendo? ¿Quién es usted? Sólo quiero ir a casa," the kid rattles off frantically when you stand up, wiping the dirt off the back of your shorts.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa..." You raise your hands, pleading with him to calm down. "Me no speaky Espanol very bien. Por favor, slow down," you say, offering out your hand to pull him off the ground.

The skinny boy gives you a look, squinting his brown eyes. "I _said_," he begins slowly, patiently, as he scratches the side of his shaggy hair. "Why are you following me? You're not crazy, are you?"

"No, I'm not cra-" you pause, your pointer finger frozen in the air. "...wait, you can speak English?"

Mowgli nods, a small smile stretching across his flushed cheeks. "Yeah, we seem to be the only ones in this part of town who can," he points out with a shrug of his boney shoulders, looking up at you with an amused expression. "Who are you? I've never seen you here before."

You're not used to just giving your name out to tiny strangers, but this is the first person you've spoken to who can actually speak English in two weeks, so. "Santana," you say, continuing to walk when one of the merchants selling Gucci bag knock-offs gives you a strange look. "And I'm from Houston."

"Gabriel." He smiles up at you, limping on his hurt leg as you walk through the streets, the sun continuing to set behind the horizon. "And I'm originally from Florida. I come here every summer and stay with my grandpa."

You nod absentmindedly, not really concentrating on what the little boy is saying because you're more focused on the men hanging out on the curb, watching you with deep scowls on their faces. "Where do you live, kid? I'm gonna walk you home."

"You don't have to do that," he assures you, wiping a drop of sweat from his temple with his forearm. "I live all the way on the other side of town."

"These guys keep giving us sketchy looks," you whisper, bowing your head to keep from making eye contact. "I'm not about to just leave you here. Come on, walk faster, Mowgli."

"My name's Gabriel," he reminds you, sending you a glare that reminds you too much of yourself. "And I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, sure," you respond sarcastically, your eyes darting around as it starts to get darker out. "That bloody leg you're limping on totally shows how great that's going."

Mowgli knits his eyebrows together, mouth set into a grimace. "You're the one who made me fall in the first place," he reminds you, "Chasing me down like a fucking crazy."

"First of all, I'm not crazy," you insist, for the second time as you kick a small rock a few yards ahead of you. "And second, watch your mouth. How old are you anyway? Eight?"

"I'm eleven," Mowgli grumbles, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "And I heard you curse before. Why can't I?"

"Because I said so."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I'm older and smarter and wiser."

"Smarter? Wiser?" Gabriel scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't even speak your own native language."

You come to a slow stop, pursing your lips stubbornly as you watch Gabriel continue to limp along the dirty path, not even pausing to give you a second look. "I could learn if I really wanted to," you mumble, quickly catching up to him before you're left all alone in the darkness. "It's just always been irrelevant to learn. The language is basically useless to me."

"Sólo tienes que ir a casa o de vuelta a donde vinieron," Mowgli starts going off on a rant, and you're not sure, but it sounds like he's cursing you out. "Usted piensa que está ayudando, pero no ar. Y si no te vas a casa pronto, uno de esos tipos ahí atrás, probablemente te hará daño." He purses his lips and blows out a breath of air, his sweaty bangs flying up in front of his face. "Is it useless now? When you have no idea what someone's saying to you?"

You can't believe you're actually having a standoff with a little boy in Mexico when you could be chilling in your air conditioned home watching some good old reality television. Staring down at him, you refuse to be the idiot he's successfully making you look like just because you don't understand.

(You want to get it.)

(You really do.)

When your parents speak to each other in Spanish, you wish you could join in. When your abuelita laughs hysterically at something happening on her Spanish soap opera, you wish you could join in. When your drunken brother and his boozed up girlfriend from Spain come to visit, only speaking to each other in Spanish, you wish you could join in, even if they're both bashed and dead to the world half the time.

It's frustrating and annoying and extremely embarrassing, especially here; where everybody expects you to just know because of the color of your skin. Sure, you fit in enough because of your appearance, but it sucks when everyone just assumes you can speak the language until you open your mouth. You try to ignore the looks of disappointment or disgust when the merchants or town people can't understand. You always try your best to communicate with your broken Spanish, but it seems trying is just never enough.

"You know what?" you ask yourself, staring down at Gabriel with squinted, threatening eyes. You were just trying to help, and where did that get you? Standing in the dark with a half-naked little boy. "Fuck this. I'm going home, or back to my grandma's house, or wherever. This is fucking pointless."

Mowgli doesn't try to stop you as you walk off, so you decide he doesn't need you as much as you don't need him.

* * *

Your abuelita chews your head off when you finally get home. You're not really sure what she's saying, and that just makes you even angrier than when you left Mowgli out in the middle of nowhere.

Because you missed your curfew, she makes you do the dishes, scrub the kitchen floor, water her plants out in the backyard, and take out the horrid smelling garbage before she lets you take a quick shower and finally go to sleep.

After all of these chores, you promise yourself to always be home before sunset. You're not really sure if your abuelita's enforcing these rules because she wants you to learn your lesson, or because she doesn't feel like doing her own damn chores.

(For the sake of your relationship, you secretly hope it's the former.)

The next morning, that damn bird wakes you up again. It's woken you up at the same time every morning. You thought you'd be used to it by now, but that's just not so. You notice the sun is just beginning to rise when you peel your eyes open and take an irritated glance out the window.

Back in Houston, during soccer season, you used to wake up at around this time to go running. You haven't worked out since you've been here, and you don't want your grandma's home cooking to make you obese, so you drag yourself out of bed and decide to take a jog.

You leave a note on the fridge that says _corriendo en la playa_. Despite your argument with Mowgli yesterday, you actually feel quite proud of your note. You had to look up the word beach in your Spanish dictionary, but the rest you remembered on your own. You throw on your running shoes and tie up your hair in a loose bun before heading out, making sure not to carelessly slam the screen door and wake up your abuelita.

You jog along the shore, sand kicking up behind your heels every time you speed up. You're the only one out here so early in the morning. You're happy about this fact. The silence is calming, the only sounds being the waves as they crash against the shore. The ocean is so beautiful; a light turquoise mixed with a soft baby blue. Jose, your brother, not your abuelo, would love it out here. He loves the ocean almost as much as he loves alcohol.

You miss your brother. You can't remember the last time you saw him. A year? Two years? You don't know. Is that bad?

(You wonder if he loves you as much as he loves alcohol.)

You don't want to say it, but you kind of like it here. Other than the lack of internet connection and the absence of your friends, you're starting to realize you don't really mind staying with your abuelita for the summer.

The only things is...you're kind of lonely.

(Just kind of.)

Although that Mowgli kid was a bit annoying and just as stubborn as you, it was kind of nice talking to someone you could actually understand for once, and who could understand you.

By the time you finish up your jog, it's much hotter outside, and you're sweaty all over. Judging by the sun, you assume it must be around noon, but you don't have a watch to check. Like usual, the sun is blazing, and you wish you would have listened to your mom, because your skin is starting to tingle and turn a little red from the hot rays. And your throat is drier than the Sahara Desert; you could really go for some ice, cold water right now.

On your way back to Abuelita's house, you tread through a rowdy marketplace. By day, the street is filled with fruit stands, fish markets, shopkeepers selling knock-offs in their suitcases, peddlers auctioning off expensive sombreros, hand-woven blankets and ponchos, and shiny jewels that sparkle under the sun. But at night, you have to be more careful, because once all the friendly merchants pack up and head home for the evening, that's when the drug dealers and perverted, old men come out.

You shudder just thinking about it as you approach a stand selling bottled water, digging through your pockets for some loose change. "Agua, por favor," you request confidently, holding out the coins in the palm of your hand, hoping the saleswoman will just take what she needs.

The woman smiles at you, missing teeth and everything, until she looks down at your hand. Squinting her eyes, she gives you a disbelieving look and mutters, "Eso no es lo suficientemente, chica poco. Usted necesita más dinero."

_Here we go again_, you think to yourself, licking your lips before repeating, "Agua, por favor. Take this dinero y give me some agua."

You take a step away from the stand when the woman sets her mouth into a frown and starts shouting, "Eso no es lo suficientemente. ¡Usted necesita más dinero, chica estúpida!"

Taking a deep breath, you swallow the vicious words begging to be released; it would just be a waste of breath since she wouldn't be able to appreciate them anyway. Sighing, you shove your money back into your pockets and get ready to leave when you feel somebody place a hand on your lower back and say, "¿Se puede excusar mi amigo?"

You look to your right, wondering who the hell thinks they can touch you. Your words die on your lips when you come face to face with the brightest hazel eyes you have ever seen.

(Again, you swallow your vicious words.)

Thin, pink lips quirk up in amusement at your dumbfounded expression. You will yourself to snap out of it and paste on an uneasy smile. The girl chuckles softly, drizzled with honey, and you inhale, your breathing a fraction off its usual pattern as the girl wraps an arm around your waist.

"Ella no habla muy bien Español." When the blonde opens her mouth and starts happily chatting with the saleswoman again, practically paying you no mind, you block everything else out in favor of listening to her voice.

It's light, breathy, with a pinch of rasp to it; there's also a slight nasal quality that you can't help but find endearing as the Spanish language floats off her tongue and into the humid air surrounding you.

While she speaks to the saleswoman, you can't help but admire her profound jaw line, the slant of her lips as she smirks knowingly, the length of her eyelashes as she bats them against her tanned skin. She glances at you for a beat of a second, and you quickly shift your eyes, pretending to admire the random knick knacks scattered across the top shelf of the cart.

"Aquí está el dinero extra." She reaches into her bag and hands the woman some more money, and you furrow your brow when the saleswoman hands the blonde a bottle of water in return. "Adios," the blonde says to the woman, tugging down on the bill on her cap. Seemingly pleased with herself, she holds the bottled water out to you with a kind smile. "Para usted..."

You narrow your eyes on the bottled water before taking it out of her hand. "Gracias," you respond eventually, kicking at the dirt with a clenched jaw. You can't believe some white girl can speak better Spanish than you. Maybe learning this language isn't as useless as you originally thought.

(That Mowgli kid might have had a point.)

"You're welcome," she says easily, her pink lips forming into a smirk. You're not surprised she can speak English. Not only because she's Caucasian, but because of her attire; the Dodgers baseball cap on her head and the thin white t-shirt with _VOLUNTEER_ written across her chest is an easy indication that she's a tourist. Other than her dialect, she kind of sticks out like a sore thumb around this part of town.

"You didn't have to do that," you tell her, scratching the back of your neck as the cold water bottle sweats in your hand.

She chuckles, shrugging her shoulders. "It's fine, really."

You nod and clear your throat uncomfortably, unsure of what to say now that you got your water and everything. Untwisting the cap, you take a long gulp of the drink, sighing in relief when the cool water soothes your scratchy throat.

"Good?" she asks with a cheeky smile, her light hazel eyes watching you the whole time.

"Great," you reply, chewing on your bottom lip. "Um, thanks again. If you didn't come when you did, I'd still be dying of thirst, so..." You trail off, wiping a film of sweat off your forehead. "I would pay you back, but I don't really have enough cash on me right now."

The blonde shakes her head and wraps her fingers around your wrist when you start reaching into your pocket. "You don't have to do that," she assures you, "Just here to help."

"I can see that," you remark, gesturing to her t-shirt with a smirk. "Volunteer?"

She chuckles, glancing down at the words with a roll of her eyes. "Yeah, I'm here with some of my friends for the summer. We're volunteering for a program at our university," she informs you, adjusting the cap on her head. "We go around rebuilding homes and handing out food packets to the less fortunate. Just a thing I do every summer."

"A really good thing," you nod, slightly impressed with the blonde standing in front of you. Over the last few weeks, you've seen the hardships these people face on a day to day basis. You see the starving people on the streets, the rundown homes, abandoned property; no wonder everyone's trying to escape this life via Green Card.

"It feels good to give back." She tries to play it off with a little shrug. "It's a lot of hard work, but nothing like what the people here have to go through every-"

"Q, where have you been?"

You smell him before you even see his smug grin.

The bristling stench has your face crinkling in distaste as you take in the confident smirk stretched across his sunburnt face. Side glancing at you, he raises a brow and slides his muscular arm over the blonde's shoulder.

It's way too hot out here to be so close to people like that, and his odor is too horrid for him to be sucking up all of the blonde's fresh oxygen. Sharing body heat is the last thing someone needs out here in the blistering heat.

"Me and the guys have been looking everywhere for you," the guy tells her, practically ignoring your existence. "You can't just run off like that, Q."

Scrunching up her nose, she shrugs out of his hold and takes a step away from him. "I'm fine, Noah," she mutters, glancing at you with a small smile. "I was just talking to my new friend..."

She looks at you with hopeful eyes, so you assume this is where you insert your name. You steel yourself, plastering on a fake smile. "Santana," you offer, holding your bottle of water up to your lips for a quick sip.

The guy nods with a crooked smile as he runs a hand through his mohawk; there's also some light stubble scattered across the lower part of his face, and you grimace, because the beard he's trying to grow just looks unnatural for some reason.

"Hola, me llamo Noah, but you can call me Puck," he says, winking in your direction. You really want to punch him in the face. Your hand tenses into a fist, but you keep it down and at your side. "Oh shit, I mean, pero tu puedes...Q, how do you say _call_?"

The blonde sends you an apologetic look. "She can speak English, Noah."

His eyes widen in surprise, and he looks at you with an arrogant grin. "Oh, why didn't you say so? Now I feel like an ass," he chuckles to himself like an ass, shaking his head as he looks back to the blonde. "Well, the bus is about to leave, so come on." He smacks her on the ass before heading off toward a small, white bus waiting on the curb of the street.

Pulling off her cap, she glares after him with a roll of her eyes. "Sorry about him, he's kind of..." she trails off, running a hand through her sweaty hair. You open your mouth to say _it's fine_ when a red cap is placed on the top of your head. "You're face is turning red, and if you don't get out of the sun soon, you'll burn," she says in explanation when you send her a curious look. Her light hazel eyes squint under the sun now that she doesn't have a shield covering her head.

The cap is kind of sweaty, and you don't really make a habit out of wearing other people's hats, because hello, lice, but for some reason, you kind of don't mind her damp cap on your head when she smiles at you with that adorable, lopsided grin and says, "It was nice meeting you, Santana. Maybe I'll see you around."

You're not sure if it's because of your sunburn, or the blush on your cheeks, but your face feels warm all of a sudden as she sends you a shy wave before heading off towards the white bus.

"Yeah," you murmur quietly, taking another sip of your cold water. "Maybe."


	2. Acuerdo

**Chapter 2: Acuerdo**

Your laptop died about three days ago. Abuelita refused to let you charge it, saying it was using up too much of her precious energy.

(At least that's what you _think _she said.)

Since you can't continue writing in your laptop about your visit, you decide to record your stay in a journal. You found it in your abuelita's shed after helping her plant some flowers in her garden one evening. You went into the shed to put away the extra soil and watering pale when you found a dusty, old journal on the top shelf.

There wasn't a lot of writing in it, just a few pages with some scribble like the person was testing if their pen worked, so you took it and claimed it as your own. You like to write. Get your mind off of things by entering a whole new world, full of wonders, made-up lands, and fictional beings.

You like to tell stories, mostly. Escaping from the world you know of now, a world where your parents ship you off to unknown territory, where your brother leaves and never comes back, where love is so easy to obtain, yet once you have love, it slips away just as easily, right through your fingertips.

Your abuelita was smart in choosing the fisherman over the boat keeper. You don't have anything against boat keepers, of course. It's just...love. Sometimes you try to act superficial and tough and emotionless, but no one can escape love. You're a sucker at heart. You'll never admit this to anyone, but you fall in love easily.

You're still battling off your last heartbreak. You have no reason to feel as downcast as you do about the whole situation. You have no right. What happened three months ago, happened. There's no going back in time. There's no fixing the mistakes that were made.

(What's done is done.)

This is your first time keeping a journal. At first, you don't know what to write about. You sit in the rocking chair on the porch and stare off into space. The distant sound of kids yelling and dogs barking drift through your eardrums. Other than that, you're lost in thought, searching for something to write; words, sentences, poems, verses, _feelings_. After a moment of hesitation, your pencil lands on the lined paper.

_Dear Journal,_

_It's been exactly eighty-five days. I'm not sure how to feel. She's still in my mind, but as the days go by, I'm finding it easier to move on. She's still in my heart, unfortunately. This, I find, is harder to let go of. Although I don't think of her as much as I used to, I can still feel her in me. It's the same with my brother. I don't know how long it's been since I've last seen him. I wonder where he is. Is he thinking about me? Does he ever think about home? Does he even want to come home?_

_I want to be mad at both him and Skye. Why can't I be mad? Why can't I scream or cry or throw a fucking fit like a toddler having a tantrum? I get angry over the smallest, most miniscule things, but when something actually worth getting upset over occurs, I shut down and act as if I don't give a shit._

_Jose used to say I was just good at controlling my emotions, deciding when it was best to blow up, or when it was best to burn out the fire, but...I think Jose was wrong. I think I'm the opposite. I can control my feelings. I know how I feel. It's just hard to tell the difference between my emotions sometimes. Like with Skye, when I-_

"Ow!"

You wince when a soccer ball hits you in the side of your head. Standing up from the rocking chair, you fix your eyes on the soccer field and shout, "Okay, who the fuck did that and thinks they can get away with it?" It feels good to yell. Flaring your nostrils, you let out a long sigh and count to ten.

As you stand their looking between all of the little boys, they avert their eyes and pretend the ground is the most interesting sight they've ever seen.

(Bunch of pussies.)

Rubbing the side of your head, you mutter under your breath and contemplate cursing each one of them out when Mowgli comes out of nowhere, running up to you with his messy hair and big brown eyes. He doesn't make eye contact as he picks up the ball and tucks it into his side, softly mumbling, "Sorry."

Before he can run off, you jog down the rest of the steps and grab his forearm. His posture stiffens when you touch him. You wonder what's going through his mind. He probably thinks this is the end; now that you've caught him, it's time to drag him into your lair and throw him in the pot to boil.

You roll your eyes at your unconventional thoughts. Sometimes you're surprised by your own vivid imagination.

Mowgli stares up at you, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. You slowly retract your hand from his arm and tuck it into your pocket. You can't believe you're about to apologize to some little boy for being wrong, but here you are, doing just that. The blonde you met a few days ago, the one with the laugh drizzled with honey, helped you realize how stubborn you were acting when you basically embarrassed yourself in front of her at the marketplace.

"Look, the other day was suckish," you huff indignantly, shrugging a shoulder. It's the closest thing to an apology that will ever leave your lips; apologizing has never been one of your strong suits anyway. "It wasn't cool of me to lose my temper and say curse words, because curse words are bad and you shouldn't say them."

Mowgli quirks an eyebrow, probably surprised by this admission considering the way you treated him. "It's...okay. I'm sorry, too," he murmurs, and you roll your eyes, because you never even said you were sorry. "It's just," he continues, ignoring you. "I guess I know how you feel."

You bite your bottom lip, half-amused, half-annoyed. "And how does that work?" you question, placing a hand on your hip. "You're bilingual. At least you can blend in around here."

Mowgli shrugs a shoulder, turning his head when one of the boys calls his name. Huffing under his breath, he throws the ball back towards the field. "I just know how it feels, being the outcast and all," he admits, brushing a strand of hair out of his face, looking longingly at the other kids as they easily kick around the ball like it's second nature.

Something strange and unfamiliar clenches in your stomach at the sadness in his big brown eyes. "Hey, kid," you begin, catching his attention again when an idea comes to you, and yeah, you're feeling pretty brilliant for coming up with such an awesome plan. "How about I help you out, and you help me?"

He considers you, his lip curled up in a look of caution. "How?" he asks curiously, leaning against the wooden post.

"If you teach me how to speak Spanish, I'll turn you into the best soccer player this town has ever seen."

Mowgli looks at you like he wants to call bullshit.

You shrug.

(It seems like a pretty good deal to you.)

He purses his lips in thought, brown eyes glancing back and forth between you and the field. "You can play soccer?" he asks skeptically.

"You're looking at the national champion of 2011 right here," you brag, playfully brushing off your shoulders. Mowlgi chuckles, and you'll never admit it aloud, but you think you like it when he smiles.

He narrows his eyes on you, a slow smile forming on his lips as he considers the idea of being one of the best. Reluctantly, he nods his head and holds out his hand. "Usted se tiene un acuerdo. Which means, you've got yourself a deal."

Mowgli's hands are caked with dirt, so you punch him in the shoulder instead. "Alright, Mo," you affirm, grabbing your journal from off the wooden step as you make your way back onto the porch. "Meet me back here tomorrow morning. And get a goodnight's sleep, because we're starting bright and early."

* * *

That night, you dream. You're not sure how it starts or ends. You don't even remember closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep. You see colors behind your eyelids, and then, the dream begins.

You're standing at the end of a tunnel. It's damp and humid; the sticky kind, where you feel itchy and uncomfortable all over. You hear drops; plop, plop, plop. It's probably raining, but you can't be sure.

_"Santana_,_" _you hear. It's a whisper, yet it's still so loud. You look to your left. You look to your right. All you see is cold, blue stone. The tunnel goes on forever. There are puddles and rats and roaches and garbage all over the ground. Your nose crunches up at the stench. _"Santana."_

There it is again. The way it's being whispered; it almost sounds like a secret. Something you're not suppose to know about. Something being kept from you, for your protection, for your safety, for your peace of mind.

_"Santana." _At the other end of the tunnel, you finally see. He's standing up straight; his perfect posture is strange. Considering the last few times you've seen him, he's always been slouched over, a side effect of all the drugs and alcohol in his system. His hair is short; cut neatly and trimmed at the edges.

You haven't seen him so put together in ages. You haven't seen his eyes shine so bright without that underlying fog in such a long time. You almost want to cry at the sight of it, but you never cry, so you just watch.

He doesn't move and neither do you. Does he even see you standing here? Does he even want to approach you? You try to take a step forward, but something, some powerful force, hinders your movement and keeps you back.

You blink slowly and stare down at your feet. They're trapped in a murky puddle. Rats and cockroaches swim through the water, over your feet, and around your legs.

_"Santana."_

You look back up, and there he is, standing right in front of you, staring straight at you. And then he does something you haven't seen in almost a lifetime.

He smiles.

* * *

Mowgli's late. It's the first day of his personal soccer practice with a future college athlete, and he's fucking late. You're angrier than you should be as you pace back and forth on the wooden porch. The damn bird works as your own personal alarm clock, so you've been up for awhile now.

(Five o'clock on the dot, every damn day.)

You told Mowgli you wanted him here bright and early for a reason. The sun has already risen, and you can feel the temperature slowly rising as the minutes tick away. This is why you wanted him here before sunset. It's cooler during the mornings, making it easier to run and not drown in your own sweat.

You tug down on the bill of the Dodgers cap on your head to block out the sunlight when you see a figure approaching in the distance. The person is slowly shuffling their legs, shoulders slumped forward as they drag themselves toward you.

"I said bright and _early_, Mo," you sneer, rolling your eyes when Mowgli peers up at you through his tangled locks with sleepy eyes. "Not fucking-" you check your wrist watch "-_nine_ o'clock. By the time we even make it to the shore it will be hot as fuck."

"You lied," Mowgli pouts, plopping down on the wooden step. "Yesterday you said you would stop cursing, but you're still cursing."

Raising an eyebrow, you stare forward in thought. "I never said that," you counter, crossing your arms over your chest as you descend the steps. "I wouldn't be able to stop cursing even if someone paid me, so I doubt I said that."

Mowgli's eyes slowly start to close as he leans against the wooden post, his jaw slightly hanging open. You almost don't want to wake him up, because he just looks so exhausted, but the two of you made a deal, and you really, _really _need to learn Spanish, so you nudge him in the ribs with your toe and watch as he jolts awake.

"C'mon, wake up." You hook your arms under his shoulders and pull him up, steadying him before you let go so he doesn't fall and smash his head against the concrete. "If we run fast enough, we might be able to make it to the market before ten. But _first_, we stretch."

Slowly, very slowly, Mowgli begins to wake up as you lead him through the stretches. He may be skinny, but the kid is as stiff as a piece of driftwood. Soccer is a fluid sport; you have to be able to move all parts of your body, twisting and turning here, jumping and sliding there. In order to make Mowgli an awesome fútbol player, you first have to make him limber.

As you jog along the shoreline, Mowgli gets distracted by the seashells and baby turtles in the sand. He does a great job of keeping up with you until you hit a mile. After that, he seems to fall back a few steps, dragging his feet in the sand as he tries to keep up with your steady pace.

Peeking over your shoulder, you let out a breath of air at the way Mowgli's hanging his head and coughing into his chest. "Lift your knees when you run," you instruct, inhaling through your nose as you approach a steep hill. "You build more muscles in your core if you keep technique and run straight."

"Santana, I'm tired," he whines, stumbling as he climbs up the hill behind you. "When can we take a break? I'm so thirsty."

You don't even have the energy to roll your eyes you're so exhausted, but you're supposed to be an example, so you keep on pushing. Plus, you only have a half-mile left before you reach the market, so you can't stop now. "We're almost there, Mo," you yell over your shoulder, wiping a patch of sweat off your brow. "Be a man and suck it up."

"I'm only eleven," Mowgli cries, gasping for air as he makes it to the top of the hill and onto the sidewalk. "If it hurts this much, I don't wanna be a man."

"Stop complaining," you mutter, turning around to jog backwards. Mowgli scowls as you run circles around him, literally, and ruffle his hair. "The more you talk, the more oxygen you use up, and the less you can breathe. Didn't you learn this in chemistry?"

"You mean biology?"

"Whatever." Lifting your head, a small smile stretches across your lips as you point ahead. "Look, Mowgli, land ho!"

Mowgli chuckles when he sees the marketplace just a few blocks away. Taking a deep breath, he lifts his head and pumps his arms, determined to reach the finish line next to you. You both sprint the last one hundred meters and stretch when you finally make it to town.

When you're sure that you're all stretched out and won't pull any muscles, you give Mowgli the okay to search for somewhere to buy a drink of water. You make sure he goes nowhere near the saleswoman you met last week. Her angry glare and missing teeth still give you nightmares.

Mowgli orders your drinks when you find a food cart near a construction zone on the outskirts of town. He tells you he wants to check it out, so you say what the hell; you finished your workout for today, and it's too hot to continue running, so you follow Mowgli as he approaches the red cones and yellow tape.

There are a few signs with the words _Warning _and _Do_ _Not Enter. _You try to tell Mowgli that you don't think you should be over here when you catch a glimpse of blonde hair. At first, you think it's just your imagination, that you're totally just seeing things, but when you hear that laugh, the one drizzled with honey, you know it's got to be her.

It's hard to see past all the caution tape and hazard signs, but if you duck your head low enough, you can see the way her eyes sparkle in the sun when she smiles, or the way her eyebrows raise as she jokes around with an Asian guy wearing a hardhat.

Another man with a hardhat approaches them with a stern look and points at the supplies surrounding them. Once the man leaves, they all get back to work, so you assume this is the volunteer program she told you about.

"Whatcha lookin' at?"

"Sshh..." You put a finger up to your lips and bend down even lower when she glances in your direction. Her hazel eyes linger for a moment before she gets back to work, dipping her paintbrush into a bucket of blue paint before turning around. "You see that girl over there, Mo?"

"The one with the blonde hair?" he asks, crouching down next to you.

You nod your head, a coy smile forming on your lips. "Yeah, her_._"

"What about her?"

Knitting your eyebrows together, you chew on your bottom lip and shake your head. "I...don't know."

* * *

Apparently, you and your abuelita are a lot alike.

When you were younger, your father used to tell you this all the time, but you always refused to believe it. Your brother met your abuelita many years ago when he was sent to visit her after getting arrested for a DUI. He told you she wouldn't leave the house, or smile, or even talk to him. He told you how she was mean and bitter and lonely, all because of the death of your abuelo.

(But your brother used to say a lot of things, so.)

Sure, most of these things about your grandma are true. She _is _mean, but only when she has to be. Like, whenever you forget to lock the backdoor at night, she yells at you in Spanish for a whole two minutes until it starts to make sense. She _is _bitter, but only on Wednesdays, because those were the days your abuelo would take her out to fancy restaurants and buy her flowers. And she _is _lonely, but only because her family disowned her when she chose love over money.

You suppose your father was right. You and your abuelita _are _a lot alike. You're mean when people are irritating, you're bitter when you think about love and the many lies it brings, and you would be lonely too if it wasn't for Mowgli.

"You see that bird right there?" He points up at a palm tree. Shoving a forkful of rice and beans into your mouth, you glance up at the bird and nod. "Say, I want to feed the yellow bird tonight."

Swallowing thickly, you purse your lips and stare at the bird as if that'll help jog your memory. You've been at this for three hours now, sitting outside a little restaurant in the heat, listening to a mariachi band play and replay the same songs over and over again as Mowgli points at random objects and tells you to translate them into Spanish.

"Um, yo quierar...dar de comer," you pause, biting your upper lip in concentration. Mowgli nods his head, urging you to keep going, so you reluctantly continue, already knowing you got the sentence all wrong. "Esta noche...pájaro amarilla?"

"Close," he says, smiling proudly, but all you can do is groan in response, because you're never going to learn this damn language. "You want to say _quiero _if you're talking about yourself. And amarilla should be _amarillo_. You get why?"

You nod, releasing a sigh through your nose as you try to block out the distracting noises surrounding you. "Pájaro has an O, so amarillo should as well," you mutter, grabbing Mowgli's glass of ice tea from across the table. "It's been five days of this shit and I'm still making the same damn mistakes."

"At least you're getting somewhere," Mowgli grumbles, snatching his glass out of your hand when he sees you take a nice, long sip just to bug him. "All we've been doing is stretching and jogging every morning. I want to play _fútbol_, not run track."

You shrug a shoulder, unapologetic, and blatantly ignore the pout Mowgli's sending your way. "You're out of shape and you can barely touch your toes," you tell him, absentmindedly poking at the brown beans on your plate. "Once you can run a mile without passing out, maybe I'll let you_hold _my soccer ba-"

"Santana?"

That voice. You'd recognize it anywhere, even near a crowded restaurant with an annoying mariachi band playing way louder than what should be legally allowed. You don't want to look too eager to see her again, so you raise your head slowly, allowing an easy smile to tug at the corner of your lips when you see her approaching your table with a wave.

You're so entranced by her long, sun kissed legs that you barely notice the group of guys following closely behind her. Their presence makes your smile falter a bit.

"Hey, that's the girl from the construction site," Mowgli practically shouts in your ear, pointing a finger dead at her. You slap his hand down and fix him with a death glare. He seems to get the idea, immediately pressing his lips together as he zips them closed and pretends to throw out the key.

(This kid is going to be the death of you.)

"Don't say a word about that, you hear me?" you whisper, nodding your head, urging him to nod along with you. Mowgli nods slowly, a wry smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

"Santana?" you hear again, and when you look up, the blonde is standing right next to your table, gripping on to the strap of her messenger bag with an arched brow. She smiles, and you think someone just stole your air supply, because you can't breathe. "Hi," she giggles, sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head.

"Hey," you smile, twirling your fork between your fingers. "It's you again."

Seemingly amused, she gazes down at you and places a hand on her hip. "Seems so," she chuckles, glancing back and forth between you and Mowgli. "And who's this handsome gentleman?"

Mowgli rubs the back of his neck as his cheeks redden noticeably. "I'm Gabriel," he murmurs, clearing his throat when it cracks, and dear God, did his voice really just crack? His face seems to get even redder, and he kicks your shin under the table when you laugh into your hand.

"But you can call him Mo," you add, hoping to hear Mowgli's voice crack again. Your parents used to scold you whenever you teased your brother about it, so you're not going to let this opportunity pass again.

"Mo?" She arches an eyebrow, her lips spread out into an amused smirk. "What does that stand for?"

"Mowgli," you supply, kicking your foot against his chair when he tries to stomp on your foot again.

She chuckles, running a hand through her tussled, blonde hair. "Oh, like, from the Jungle Book."

(So that's where you heard the name before.)

Nibbling on your bottom lip, you contemplate asking what her name is, because you're kinda tired of referring to her as _the blonde_ in your head, but before you can even open your mouth, someone yells, "Q, let's go!" It's the guy from a few weeks ago; you think his name is Puck. He points at the restaurant you're sitting near and says, "We're going inside to order."

"Get me the regular," she tells him, shrugging a shoulder. Puck nods his head and leads the other two guys into the restaurant.

Raising an eyebrow, you purposefully make eye contact with Mowgli across the table and tilt your head in the direction Puck and his friends just went. Mowgli stares at you in confusion, a deep crease in his forehead as he looks between you, the restaurant, and the blonde standing beside your table. After a few seconds pass, his brown eyes widen and he seems to catch your drift, grabbing his half empty glass of ice tea and muttering, "I'm gonna get a refill."

You roll your eyes at his lack of subtly and nudge him in the shoulder when he walks passed, almost making him spill the rest of his ice tea.

"Your brother?" she asks, taking a seat in the empty chair, like you secretly hoped she would.

"Pseudo," you shrug your shoulder and narrow your eyes on her with a playful smirk. "Your name?"

She smiles at this, leaning her elbow on the table. "Q," she answers, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

You lean back in your chair, watching her closely. "Just Q?" you ask skeptically. "It doesn't stand for anything, like..."

She doesn't insert a name into your empty space, just a coy smile. "Guess."

"Guess?"

"Yep."

Narrowing your eyes on hazel, you chew on the inside of your cheek and guess, "Qiana."

"Red." She shakes her head, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Queen."

"Yellow."

Pursing your lips, you decide to just throw anything out there and hope its right. "Quincy."

"Green."

"_That _was close?" you ask, head cocked to the side disbelievingly.

She nods her head, crooked smile perfectly in place. "Really close."

"Qu..." you trail off, tapping your fingers on the table as you try to come up with another name. "Qu...Quinn?"

"Bingo."

"Quinn," you murmur, testing out the name on your tongue. "Quinn. I like it."

"Why thank you," she responds, biting down on her lower lip to suppress the lovely grin she's desperately trying to hold back.

You smile down at your plate of food, shoveling the rice around bashfully. There's a pause in conversation, but you don't feel the urge to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Quinn seems content to just sit across from you and listen to the music while she waits for her friends.

You're not really hungry anymore; you're not sure what it is, but there's this strange flutter in your stomach, and Quinn's smile is way more appetizing than the rice and beans on your plate anyway.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Quinn wonders aloud, breaking the silence.

You smirk, setting your fork down in your plate. "What gave me away?"

"Everything," Quinn shrugs a shoulder.

You laugh, shaking your head in amusement. _"Everything?"_

"Almost everything. You don't speak Spanish very well," she points out, lifting a brow challengingly, and you try not to blush. "And everyone around here seems to walk with a sense of purpose, but you..." Quinn's eyes narrow thoughtfully, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "You're so relaxed and...carefree compared to the natives."

You've never heard anyone refer to your personality or attitude as carefree, but you'll take what you can get. Squinting your eyes, you regard her closely. "Have you been stalking me?" you tease, arching a brow.

Quinn doesn't even falter. "Maybe a little," she says, pursing her lips.

Her lips are pink.

Your new favorite color is pink.

She's flirting with you; you'd be stupid not to notice. Insane not to notice, especially since you're straighter than a circle.

You're not going to be one of those girls who overanalyze everything; take simple words and make them mean something else. You've done it countless times before with Skye and other girls you've known in the past. More than likely, they always end up having a boyfriend, or worse, being straighter than a rainbow in denial.

The worst thing about being attracted to women is that you're never certain if they're into _that_ unless you flat-out ask, which you'll never ever be bold enough to do, so all you can really do is just watch and wait. Women like to flirt, no matter what the gender.

(It's the cold, hard truth.)

Her head is turned as she watches the mariachi band sing and dance around with their instruments happily. Unlike you, she seems to be enjoying the music. Her head bobs up and down. You smile at the way she tries to suppress her smile.

Now that she's distracted, you allow your eyes to wander. No more is she wearing the white _VOLUNTEER _t-shirt from last week. Today, she's dressed in a white, strapless sundress which stops at her knees. With her tanned skin and bright dress, Quinn looks like an angel.

You remember when Skye used to look like an angel.

Skye.

(You _still _don't want to talk about it.)

"Where's your volunteer shirt?"

Quinn looks surprised at the change in subject for all of two seconds before she glances down at her outfit, eyebrows raised as if she forgot she was wearing something different herself. "Oh, we get a day off twice every week," she explains, fiddling around with her sunglasses. "Speaking of, some of my friends were talking about hanging out at a bar tonight." She pauses and smiles down at the table. You sit and wait, hoping she finishes her thought process, because you really want to hear what she has to say. "Care to join us?"

You're happy you waited. You've never been the most patient person, but it seems you're learning a lot more than just Spanish this summer.

Your first response is _hell, yeah_. Like, who in their right mind would brush off this invitation? Certainly not you. Especially with the way Quinn's staring at you; eyes shy and cautious, head tilted sideways, lips slightly parted as she waits for your answer.

Your abuelita would kill you if you weren't home before curfew, but you really want to go, _especially _when Quinn raises a coy eyebrow, her hazel eyes peering up at you from under her eyelashes, and before you can even properly think it over, words, words, and more words are flying out of your mouth.

(Curse word vomit.)

"Okay, yeah. Sure, I'd love to go," you answer, already knowing this is _not_ going to end well. "Where should I meet you?"


	3. más rápido

**Chapter 3: más rápido**

_Dear Journal,_

_I am Santana Lopez, and I am lost._

_I am a seventeen year old girl growing up in Houston, Texas. I like to play soccer, eat pepperoni pizza, and watch reality TV. I like to laugh, I like to smile, I like to joke around with my friends._

_Well, that was before I lost my friends._

_I had a close group of friends until Skye happened. I had a lot of things before Skye happened, actually._

_My family is a circus. My mother is the clown, my father is the lion tamer, my brother is the magician, my abuelita is the __hypnotist__._

_And me? I am the ringleader._

* * *

Sneaking out the house isn't as easy as you originally thought it would be. Abuelita's fast asleep, but she's sitting right in front of the tv in her napping chair. The house is only one story, so you contemplate climbing out the window, but the damn thing is sealed shut.

Abuelita's a pretty deep sleeper, so you take a chance and tiptoe past her, clutching the Dodger's cap to your chest. She jerks in her sleep right when you make it to the kitchen. You freeze and hold your breath until she starts snoring again, then carefully walk around the table and out the screen door.

It's a cool night, so you roll down your sleeves and shove your hands into your pockets as you walk. You don't want to run into any of the creepy drug dealers or homeless men on the main pathway, so you take a different route around an empty warehouse. It takes an extra five minutes, but if it means escaping getting killed or kidnapped, then so be it.

Quinn's waiting for you right where she promised; on the corner of Calle Punto Rojo y Calle Pequeña Flor. It's already dark out, and you should be asleep in bed right now, but once you see the coy smile on Quinn's face when she sees you approaching, you could care less about where you_should _be, because this is where you _want _to be.

The three guys from earlier today are standing with her. You already know Puck, so Quinn introduces you to the other two volunteers. You try to ignore the way Sam's eyes linger on you for a fraction longer than what would be considered appropriate.

He doesn't say anything when Quinn introduces you. Actually, if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was a little scared of you. Mike's the exact opposite of Sam. He shakes your hand enthusiastically and whispers, "Hi, I'm Mike Chang." He's hyper and jumpy and a bit exhausting as he dances around all of you as you make your way to wherever it is you're going.

Quinn stays at your side. You appreciate the way she tries to make you feel comfortable around her friends by including you in conversation, asking you questions about where you're from and why you're here for the summer.

You hesitate. "Well, see," you begin, running a hand through your hair. "There was this dilemma at a drug store, but-"

"It wasn't your fault?" Quinn cuts in with a smirk, leaning to the side to bump your shoulder.

"Don't believe me?" you ask, jutting out your lower lip teasingly.

Quinn smiles; the one that shows all of her pretty, white teeth. "I believe you plenty."

She doesn't even know you, yet she believes you plenty. It's a little sad, but that's the most faith anyone has ever had in you, and somehow, it means the world. You smile at her, somewhat shyly, and she smiles back.

There's nothing but darkness surrounding you other than the occasional streetlight, but you can see her bright eyes glowing, and that's enough to tell you she's happy. About what? You'll probably never know, but you suppose that's not the point. You've never been that person to make someone happy, so if you can offer a small part of yourself to Quinn and make her smile, hell, you're life is basically complete now.

Halfway to the bar, you decide you don't like Puck. It's a chilly night, so he takes this opportunity to wrap Quinn up in his arms to _supposedly_keep her warm. That's what he whispers in her ear, at least, and it's obvious he wants you to hear his hushed words by the pretentious smirk on his face.

Your fists curl at your sides. What you'd give to knock him out right now. Closing your eyes, you breathe in and count to ten. Your body fills with calm as soon as you finish counting. You can't recall where you learned this technique, but it always helps with your anger issues, so.

Sam's the quiet one of the group. He walks a little ahead of you with his hands in his pockets. Every now and then, he peeks over his shoulder at you, but whenever you catch him looking, he always turns back around and kicks at the dirt.

He doesn't talk much, you notice. Probably because Mike is so overwhelming, and Quinn is so confident, and Puck hogs all of the attention. With so many large personalities surrounding him, how is even suppose to get a word in?

The town looks different at night. You've never been out this late before, but you're not scared. Maybe it's the fact you're walking with a group of people, or maybe it's just Quinn's reassuring smile and breathy voice that comforts you.

You like the way she talks, so you listen without a problem. She tells you more about the volunteer program she does every year, a little about the other countries she's traveled to, and a lot about how she grew up in Los Angeles where she goes to school now at UCLA.

Ignoring the way Puck's arms wrap possessively around Quinn's waist from behind, you listen with great interest as she smiles at you and tells you about her classes as if Puck's not even in the near vicinity.

She tells you about her photography exploration class, and her jackass of a teacher, Professor Harrison, and her strenuous global studies courses, and how she barely ever has enough time to hang out with her friends or keep up with the Dodger's season.

(You don't tell her much, because, well, there's not much to tell.)

When she mentions the Dodgers, you remember her cap, which is hanging off the belt loop of your shorts. You don't want to give it back, but keeping it would probably be like stealing or something, so unhook it and hold it out to her. You're only mildly surprised when she takes it out of your hands and tugs it back on your head, telling you to keep it.

You catch Puck's expression out of the corner of your eye; he doesn't exactly look angry, just taken aback, as if you stole something that belongs to him, and you're not talking about the cap.

Because of that envious look on his face, you don't get a chance to talk to Quinn for the rest of the night. Puck makes sure of it. Once you enter the bar, everything seems to happen all at once. Sam completely disappears like the recluse he is, Puck and Quinn squeeze through a throng of people towards the back of the bar, and Mike grabs your hand with a bright smile and buys you a drink.

You briefly wonder if he has ADHD or something, but the thought doesn't linger once you spot Quinn and Puck sitting at a booth in the corner of the bar. The way they're facing each other, whispering lowly with smiles on their faces; it almost looks intimate, too intimate.

You don't own her, you're not the possessive type, and you're totally not jealous, but something about their connection makes you wish you were him. You don't even know her, so why does it hurt when Puck leans in to whisper something in Quinn's ear, making her giggle bashfully? It could be the alcohol, or it could be the rush of hanging out in another country, way past curfew at a dingy bar on the outskirts of town, but whatever it is, you don't like it.

Flaring your nostrils, you take a deep breath and count to ten.

The bar is grungy; it's the best word you can think of to describe this place. You suppose it's clean enough according to health inspector standards, but you'd never eat any food off these counters. The tables are dusty, the metal stools are caked with rust, the floors are stickier than a piece of chewed gum, and the people in here look like they haven't bathed in ages.

Mike's wide grin remains plastered on his face as he talks and talks and talks, barely ever pausing to take a breath or sip his cold beer. You're having a hard time concentrating on whatever he's saying. After awhile, Mike seems to notice you're not listening to his never ending story about how he got his head stuck in a beehive, leaving you to talk to someone who'll actually care.

You're not planning on getting drunk. Hell, you weren't even planning on ordering a drink in the first place. It would be stupid to get inebriated in an unfamiliar part of town with a group of people you've just met. Plus, something about liquor always reminds you of your brother.

(It reminds you _too much _of your brother.)

You watch as a middle aged Mexican man stacks a row of glasses behind the bar. His cowboy hat shields his eyes and masks his face, allowing him to stay a mystery to any outsiders. This reminds you that you're still wearing the Dodger's cap. All of a sudden, it feels too tight on your head, so you quickly pull it off and place it in your lap.

You're wondering why you even agreed to come tonight when you feel a body sit in the stool next to you. You can tell it's Sam from out the corner of your eye. He doesn't look your way or even acknowledge your presence as he talks to the bartender and orders a drink.

It figures; he can speak Spanish too. Not as fluent as Quinn or Mowgli, but at least it's something. It makes you wonder how long they've been doing this program, how many times they've been to Mexico before, or to other countries around the world.

These people are strangers to you. They could be serial killers for all you know, but you risked all of this because of a mere attraction to a mysterious blonde who isn't even paying you any mind. It's like she doesn't even remember she invited you here as she laughs along with Puck and curls into his side.

(Yep, definitely a flirt.)

"Santana, right?"

You almost forgot Sam was sitting next to you. Tipping the beer bottle against your lips, you nod your head and mumble, "That's me."

"I'm Sam," he tells you, lifting his arm over the counter, his palm open towards you.

You stare at his calloused hand with an arched brow. "I know," you say, taking a sip of your beer.

Sam puts his hand flat on the countertop when it's clear you won't be touching him anytime soon. "I like this song," he murmurs, absentmindedly tracing a picture into the moisture of his beer bottle.

You hadn't even noticed there was music playing in the background. "Do you even know what they're saying?" you wonder skeptically.

When Sam smiles, it's like his whole face breaks in two. His lips are already wide and floppy to begin with, but when he grins bashfully like this, you can't help but compare him to a fish. "I can only understand the chorus," he admits, shrugging a shoulder. His head is bowed, eyes downcast; making eye contact is awkward for him, that much is certain. "Nos caen más rápido que subimos. Which means, we fall faster than we climb."

"Depressing," you mutter, distractedly peeling the label off your bottle of beer.

Sam chuckles and runs a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "It doesn't have to be. Depends on how you look at it." When you give him a quizzical glance, eyebrows raised in confusion, he smiles knowingly and adds, "Maybe if we climb fast enough, we can get to the top before we fall."

Blah, blah, blah; that's literally all you hear. Sure, his words are encouraging, but you're more concerned with what's going on behind you in that small booth in the corner.

You're trying not to care. You really are. But when Quinn's laughter floats toward your ears over the music, you can't help but look. Quinn's definitely drunk, that much is obvious, and it seems Puck is taking full advantage of this situation by planting sloppy kisses all along her jaw and down her neck.

You watch with a grimace, but when Quinn opens her eyes and catches you staring, your whole face sets on fire. Your cheeks are red and your mouth is parted in disbelief as she sends you a flirty wink, even as Puck continues to suck on her neck, no doubt trying to leave a mark.

You quickly turn back around and ask the bartender for a glass of whiskey in your best Spanish.

Sam glances worriedly at you from out the corner of his eye, but you ignore the look in favor of gulping down the liquid, wincing when the alcohol burns your throat, and then you ask for another, then another, trying to keep the image of Jose out of your mind as you do so.

Tapping his fingers on the countertop, Sam clears his throat and says, "You remind me a lot of my ex, you know." You didn't know, obviously. You've never even met him nor his ex, therefore, you don't know squat. "She'd always look okay and seem stable when you saw her, but...there was this underlying gloom to her."

"Calling me gloomy, Sam?" you mumble, feeling a bit defensive. He doesn't know you, and you don't know him, nor do you ever want to.

Sam shakes his head. "No," he whispers, his leafy green eyes earnest. "I'm just saying, there was more to her than meets the eye. It's been months, but I'm still not over her. Ex's always seem to have this claim over you." He shrugs his shoulders, looking off at nothing in particular. "But you fall faster than you climb, you know. Maybe it's time I start falling in a different direction."

(You don't like the way he looks at you when he says this.)

You think of Skye. If there were ever a time to talk about her, this may be the best opportunity to get everything off your chest.

Skye.

(You don't really want to talk about it.)

When you choose not to respond, Sam finally leaves you alone, though he remains silent at your side for the rest of the night.

You're not exactly sure what happened to Mike, and personally, you don't really care. With all of his uncontrollable energy, he's kind of annoying; like a swarm of gnats all up in your grill when you're trying to eat.

You don't think this night can get any worse, but when Quinn and Puck leave together without even saying goodbye, you accept Sam's request to walk you home.

Maybe it's the fact you're boarding on drunk, maybe it's because it's dark out and you don't want to get raped, or maybe it's because you're feeling insecure about misreading Quinn's intentions, but you let him take you home, and somewhere along the lines, everything goes black.

* * *

For the first time since you've been here, that damn bird doesn't wake you up. Somehow, you sleep right through its chirping. You're not sure if you're alive. There's this dull ache in the back of your skull going bah-bump, bah-bump, bah-bump.

You wish you could tell the noise to shut the fuck up, but your throat is so hoarse, you can't even open your mouth. Moving is another thing you can add to the list of actions you can't do. All of your limbs still seem to be attached, but you won't dare open your eyes to check.

"Santana," you hear; it sounds distant, like someone whispering through a long tube. "Santana, wake up."

Peeling your dry eyes open, you warily gaze up, but all you can see is a blurry blob staring down at you. "Abuelita?" you rasp out.

"It's Gabriel," the voice says, and you knit your eyebrows together, because who the fuck is Gabriel? You don't have much time to think this over, because suddenly, the sheets are being pulled off your body, and you groan throatily. "What the hell is wrong with you?" the voice asks incredulously. "You look like shit."

Your vision slowly starts to clear as you blink your eyes and rub the sleep out of them. "Mo?" you whisper, clearing your throat.

Your voice sounds like you swallowed a bale of hay, your temples are throbbing, your stomach feels like its sinking in on itself, and there's this lump in your throat that won't go down no matter how many times you swallow.

You don't know what's happening; all you know is that the back of your head is killing you as Mowgli grabs your wrists and pulls you out of bed. The room is spinning, and you wrap your arms around your stomach when the overwhelming urge to throw up tickles at your throat.

Mowgli is a fuzzy blur as he tugs you through the house and into the kitchen, holding you steady around your waist so you won't fall.

The sun is shining through the windows in the kitchen, making your headache ten times worse. Clenching your eyes shut, you let out a dry moan and pray to God this isn't the end.

Mowgli dumps you into a chair at the kitchen table with an exhausted huff. "You are _way _heavier than you look, fat ass," he groans, sighing in annoyance when you slump forward and rest your head on the cold tabletop.

(You don't even have the energy to feel offended.)

As you dwell in your hangover funk, Mowgli ransacks the kitchen, pulling random ingredients out of the refrigerator and cupboards. Three minutes later, a glass of gray gook is set in front of you. Green chunks float at the top, and you almost gag at the heady stench.

"This is an old family recipe to get rid of hangovers," he explains, sliding it closer to your face.

Groaning, you push it away and shake your head. "I'm not hungover."

"I'm eleven, not stupid," Mowgli scoffs, unamused. "Just close your nose and chug it down. It'll be over before you know it."

"My taste buds aren't encouraging me to put that crap down my throat," you mumble, pushing the evil glass of gray gunk across the table again.

"Hey, we made a deal," Mowgli exclaims, pushing the glass back in front of you. "Whether you drink this shit or not, we're going running anyway, so suck it up and be a man." Despite your tremendous headache, you chuckle dryly, remembering when you said those exact words.

(The kid learns fast.)

Sitting up, you swallow thickly and stare at the hangover remedy with a look of dejection. Not only does it look awful, but it smells like a city dump mixed with baby poop. Clamping your nose shut, you pick up the glass and hold it to your lips.

This shitty drink shouldn't even be considered a liquid, you think to yourself, as the slimy chunks slide down your throat. Your face screws up at the taste, but you struggle through it and hope to God this works for Mowgli's sake.

Setting down the empty glass, you wipe your mouth with your forearm and stare at the table in concentration in order to keep the drink down.

"You okay?"

"Do I _look _okay?" you snap, standing up from the table. To your surprise, the room doesn't start spinning, your eyes remain focused, and your stomach doesn't turn, so maybe this crap actually works.

(You would recommend it to your brother if he wasn't already immune to hangovers.)

"Actually," Mowgli muses, crossing his arms over his chest. "You look a whole lot better than you did five minutes ago." Smirking, you punch him hard in the shoulder as you head towards the refrigerator. He stumbles to the side with a chuckle. "Hey, you better be nice to me or I'll tell your grandma you left the backdoor open...again."

You narrow your eyes and scratch the side of your head, confused. "Why would the backdoor be open if I didn't even..."

The color drains from your face and everything comes rushing back to you like a whirlwind of foggy and jumbled up memories full of beer and liquor and blonde hair and country music.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, averting your eyes to the ceiling in frustration.

"Shit is right," Mowgli chuckles, shaking his head. "I remember what happened the last time you left the door open. You're lucky I came and locked it before she woke up. Maybe I should've left it open though. When your grandma gets mad, it's really funny. Especially when she starts yelling in Spanish and you have no idea what she's-"

"Shut up, Mo, I'm thinking..."

"About?"

"Last night."

"Ew," Mowgli's face twists comically, his tongue sticking out. "Gross. Did you..."

"Did I what?" you ask, eyebrows raised.

"Have," he pauses, his voice lowering to a whisper, "..._sex_?"

Your jaw unhinges dramatically. "Never _ever _ask me that question again."

Mowgli grins stupidly. "Did you have..."

"Don't you _dare _say it," you warn, pointing a threatening finger at him.

"What? Do you mean," Staring you down with an evil smirk, Mowgli squints his eyes challengingly and whispers, "..._sex_?"

With a growl, you chase him under the kitchen table, around the living room, out of the house, and all the way down to the shore.

(Let's just say Mowgli gets the workout he wanted so badly.)

* * *

You're at the marketplace shopping for dough, or _masa_, as it reads on your shopping list. After hours of begging your abuelita in choppy fragments of Spanish, she finally agreed to cook empanadas tonight for dinner.

She didn't have all the ingredients for the dish in her kitchen, so here you are in the food market, glaring down harshly at an unreadable shopping list as you hold a heavy sack of pesos in your right hand.

You can't even read half of the items on this list. Like, what the fuck is _cebollas_? You really wish Mowgli was here right now.

At least you'd have someone to help you bargain and haggle with these greedy merchants who try to cheat you out just because you can't understand them.

Squinting your eyes, you scan through the shopping list and mumble, "Pimientos rojos..." You know _rojo_ means red, so. "What the fuck does pimientos mean?"

"Peppers."

"Huh?" You turn around to discover hazel eyes looking back at you.

(Of...course.)

Quinn smirks as she strolls down the aisle, holding a straw basket in the crook of her elbow. "Hey."

You force a smile. "Hi." But it probably comes out as more of a grimace.

"We need to stop running into each other like this." She's standing close, really close, so you take a step back and avert your eyes to your shopping list. Quinn doesn't seem to notice as she purses her pink lips and leans against one of the metal shelves. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking _me _now."

"Wishful thinking," you chuckle humorlessly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face as you slip past her and down another aisle. You try to ignore her as she follows you through the store and towards the produce section.

"You forgot to get the red peppers," Quinn points out, walking up beside you. She's still smiling; that irresistible, lopsided smile she loves to wear, and it's driving you insane.

The other night is still fresh in your mind. It's not Quinn's fault you have a stupid crush, it's not her fault you thought she was into you, it's not her fault she's a flirty drunk and allowed Puck to invade her personal space.

She probably doesn't even know about your attraction to her. The way Quinn's looking at you now, with that irresistible, quizzical gaze of hers, it's clear to you that she had no intention of stringing you along.

You always seem to do this; interpret small things to mean something bigger. You used to do it with Skye, and here you are again, even in a different country, doing it with Quinn.

When you choose to concentrate on your shopping list rather than her delectable, pink lips, Quinn grows impatient and snatches the small piece of paper right out of your hand. "What the..." you trail off, brows raised incredulously.

"Cebollas means onions," she tells you, peeking into your shopping bag. "You didn't get any of those yet."

"I'm working on it," you mutter, snatching the piece of paper right back.

Quinn's smile doesn't even falter as she nods her head and continues to follow you through the store. Ignoring her light footsteps trailing behind, you grab a few peppers and toss them into your basket.

"I can help, you know," Quinn offers, when she catches you looking at the list with a crease in your brow.

"I can handle it, thanks," you tell her, scanning your eyes over the display of onions on sale. "I know what the rest of the list says."

(Actually, that's a lie, but you know.)

Quinn's expression seems to fall when you brush past her yet again, but you have to admit, the girl is quite persistent. She's not as close as she was before, but you can still feel her presence behind you as you approach the counter.

"Did you have fun the other night?" she speaks up again after you pay the salesclerk.

Stepping out of the market and into the sunlight, you toss your shades on and start walking down the dusty path. "I had a _blast_."

Quinn clenches her jaw, seemingly growing agitated with your sarcasm and lack of enthusiasm. You don't know what she expects.

She did kind of ditch you after all, leaving you behind with a guy you don't even know to walk you home while she went off with her boyfriend to do who knows what.

Her phone rings, and you try not to eavesdrop as you stop at a jewelry cart and admire a beaded necklace. It's brown and white with a little cross at the end. Jose used to wear a necklace just like this.

He received it at his baptism and continued to wear it ever since. You always assumed he wore the necklace for style, but maybe it was more than that.

"I'm at the market, Noah," Quinn sighs, annoyed, as she turns her back to you. "I'll be back at the motel in a few minutes. Sam is around here somewhere, so relax, I'm not gonna get lost."

Your body stiffens when you hear Sam's name. You can't recall what happened the other night after you left the bar. You can't recall him dropping you off. You can't even recall getting into bed that night.

You really, really don't want to run into him, so you put the necklace of beads back on the top shelf and turn around to walk home when you bump right into Quinn.

"Sorry," you both say at the same time. Quinn chuckles, amused with what just happened, but you can't find it in yourself to laugh right now. Her phone rings _again,_ and you roll your eyes when it's Puck, _again._

With Quinn's type of persistency, you doubt she'll easily let you go, so while her back is turned, you make your quick escape.

Sure, she's alluring and freakishly charming, but that's one of the biggest reasons you should stay far away from her. You have a thing for falling too hard and too quick, so maybe it's just better this way.

* * *

Merengue music plays on the radio as you help Abuelita do the laundry. You never had to concentrate so hard on doing laundry before in your life. There are just so many steps. Abuelita doesn't have a washing machine, so you're both in the backyard, standing over a large bucket of water.

Your back is starting to ache from bending down for so long as you soak the clothing in a water basin, rub out the stains against the scrub board ("Asegúrese de que no hay burbujas grandes, Santanita"), twist the fabric and wring out the water, shake it out roughly, hook it onto the clothes line, wait for the wet clothes to dry, and then repeat.

Abuelita stops working every now and then to shake her hips and dance to the music. Her smile is bright as she closes her eyes and moves her feet to the rhythm and beat. You can tell she's in another world whenever she's this happy.

She's imagining a time your abuelo was a young_ señorito_. She's picturing all the good times they had together before he got sick and everything changed.

You remember when he died. It's not one of your most clear memories considering you were only four at the time. You had never met him, and you didn't really understand the significance of a funeral and why everyone was so sad. All you knew was that your father cried a lot, your grandma cried a lot, and that you were in a different country.

Your mother held your hand and made sure you stayed seated throughout the service. You were antsy in your tiny black dress and gray leggings, and wouldn't stop kicking your feet as you sat through the wake. Your seven year old brother, Jose, sat on your right and kept flicking you in the ear, telling you to _stop squirming or I'll give you a Super Mario wedgie._

(Damn, you really miss your brother sometimes.)

"Eh, Santanita," your abuelita calls, pulling off her floppy gardening hat to wipe at her sweaty brow.

Bending over the wooden basin, you twist the water out of a soapy t-shirt and peer up at your abuelita as she hangs up a large pair of white panties. "Sí, Abuelita."

"Seventeen I was when met you abuelo," she tells you, moving towards the radio to turn up the volume as she continues to dance.

The music is blasting now, and you hope none of the neighbors bitch you out for playing it so loud.

She squints her eyes under the blazing sunlight and asks, "¿Tiene novio?"

Sighing, you wipe your wet hands on the back of your shorts and stand up straight. "No, Abuelita, yo no tengo un novio."

Abuelita pauses in the middle of what looks like a very intricate dance move. Her gray eyebrows are near her receding hairline. You've been waiting for her to ask this question for weeks now, so you've been practicing this sentence for even longer.

"Muy bien, Santanita," Abuelita exclaims, clapping her hands together in excitement. "You learn Español?"

"Yo entiendo muy poco," you shrug, hanging one of your abuelita's dresses up on the clothes line. Just like you planned, your abuelita _es muy emocionado_, and she forgets all about her original question, celebrating your accomplishments instead.

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_Quinn reminds me too much of Jose. I've already had one person leave me, I don't need another._


	4. campeón del fútbol

**Chapter 4:** **campeón del fútbol**

It's midday. There's not a cloud in the sky as you sit on the bottom step of the porch and watch Mowgli play a game of soccer with the other boys. After awhile, you can't look anymore. It's pitiful. He has no technique, no skill, and no handle on the ball. Now you get why Carlos always runs right passed him. Now you get the sulking, lack of confidence, and insistence to actually use a ball during your workouts.

(In lack of better words, the kid sucks.)

Other than Mowgli, the soccer boys are pretty good, bouncing the ball off their heads and chests, rolling it between their feet, flicking the ball up with their toes as they kick it into the goal. To take your mind off the impossible challenge of teaching Mowgli how to kick straight, you look up at the sky. A distant noise catches your attention; a low buzzing, coming closer and closer.

Tilting your head up, you lift your hand to shield your eyes from the sun and stare at the straight, white line splitting the sky in half. The white line reminds you of chalk on a blackboard, the teacher's stern face as she tries to teach a class full of children how to read a multiplication table.

After awhile, the low buzzing sound of the plane begins to drift off into the distance. You want to stand up, wave your hands around, and yell, _"Wait for me! Help! Help!" _There's nothing you want more than to get out of this place. Go home. To your own house, your own room, your own bed.

Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out a brand new box of cigarettes. The pack is so new, the plastic is still wrapped around the box. You cradle the cigarette between your index and middle finger. Closing your eyes, you take a long drag and blow the smoke out through your nose. It burns your nostrils and makes your eyes water.

(It's the closest thing to crying you'll ever reach.)

The smell is pungent, the taste is bitter, but you've never been too fond of sweet flavors anyway.

Briefly, you wonder if Quinn smokes. Would she be disgusted by your habit, or would she think it's cool, sexy, arousing? Actually, you wonder a lot of things. You wonder if it's possible for a heart to break in thirds. Your heart has barely healed from your breakup a few months back, and now there's Quinn.

Quinn, with her golden hair and hazel eyes. Quinn, with her nasally voice and pink lips. Quinn, with her crooked smile and charming words. You can't be trusted around girls like her. Somehow, you always end up doing something stupid, something brainless, something emotionally harmful, to both the girl and yourself.

You hear the sound of high-pitched shouting coming from the soccer boys as they run up and down the field. Most of them haven't even reached puberty yet, the youngest being six, oldest being fourteen. You seem to be the only one interested in watching their games, excluding old Mr. Ramos across the street.

Your grandma told you about him. She's thinks he's crazy, but for some unknown reason, you like him. Maybe it's his spunk you find admirable. Not everyone is confident enough to come out of their house every morning with just a wife beater and a pair of red boxers to collect the mail. Sometimes he even yells at the soccer boys to keep off his grass, throwing the daily newspaper at them when they refuse to listen.

When he walks back up his porch, he always waves at you and shouts something in Spanish. The houses aren't spread too far apart, so you can hear him easily, though that's not exactly the problem. Understanding him is the big issue. You think he's telling you to say hello to your grandma for him, but you never do, because your grandma says he's a creep, so.

You're not sure what to think. If the dopey grin on his face every time your grandma steps out on the porch is any indication, you'd say he has a crush on her. The thought of old people falling in love makes you want to grimace and swoon at the same time.

You never knew your grandfather, so you're not sure what Abuelita's type is, but if she's anything like you, she wants someone who's bold and not afraid to get what they want, and that person is definitely old Mr. Ramos.

* * *

_Dear Skye,_

_I am young and stupid. I am cryptic and dark. When we first met, I was a firecracker. That's what you loved about me. I have a hard time letting go. You should know this better than anyone._

_We thought we were invincible, immortal. We thought we could beat the odds._

_We thought wrong._

_._

_._

_._

Sighing through your nose, you rip the piece of lined paper out of your journal and crumble it up. With a grimace, you watch as the balled up paper rolls across the carpet and under your bed.

* * *

**Day 1**

You wish you had a camera to take a picture of the beaming grin on Mowgli's face when you tell him you're not going running today. He can run a full mile without needing a break, he can touch his toes without bending his knees, and he has the perfect running technique, all thanks to you.

Now, as you remember from yesterday, you need to teach him ball control. Mowgli was all over the place whenever he came into contact with the soccer ball. You had watched with a wince every time Carlos or one of the other boys came out of nowhere and stole the ball away from him with a swift kick of their foot.

It's around six in the afternoon, the perfect time to use the field since all of the soccer boys have been called in to eat their dinner. You bump the ball back and forth against your knees and on the top of your head as you walk toward the field, chuckling when Mowgli's smile gets even broader at the tricks you do.

After teasing Mowgli that he looks like a hyena for about five minutes, you finally let him _hold _your soccer ball. He stares at it as if it's a special crystal ball, and if he drops it, it'll shatter into a million pieces.

**Day 2**

You let him bump the soccer ball back and forth on his knees. Black and white hexagons swirl together as the ball flies into the air, spinning and spinning into a big blur of circles. Mowgli's movements are a little jerky and unpracticed. Every time he lifts a leg, it almost looks like he's doing the robot.

The ball probably flies about six feet in the air before landing yards behind him. Mowgli runs from side to side, desperately trying to keep the ball in front of him, but after about three bumps, the ball always lands in the dirt with a soft thump, brown dust floating up into the air, making you cough into your fist.

You try to demonstrate, repeating the words, "Keep your eye on the ball," as you bounce the ball back and forth. "It may seem tedious, but this is the best way to learn control," you tell him, wiping off a patch of sweat from your forehead. "Just make sure the ball stays within a foot from your knee, and keep your back straight to maintain balance."

You used to practice this all the time with your brother. You can see it now; home, in the front yard, young and healthy, warm afternoon. Jose, with his gelled hair and brown freckles. Jose, with his toothy smile and bushy eyebrows. Jose, teasing you whenever you fall on your back, but always there to help you back up.

You loved these summer afternoons the best. Until that car pulled up on the curb. A voice called out. You had ignored it, but Jose followed the voice. The car window rolled down, and all you could see was smoke. The car pulled away, Jose was gone, and you're left all alone. Bye, Jose.

Mowgli seems disheartened when he can't get it right. You hate the frown on his face. It reminds you too much of another frown.

"You'll get it, Mo," you promise, softly punching him in the shoulder. "You'll get it."

**Day 3**

The soccer ball finally touches the dirt. You can tell Mowgli's trying to contain his smile as you drop the ball to the ground and dribble it back and forth between your feet. His eyes go left and right, left and right, following your sneakers as if they have the solution to world peace.

Wiping his sweaty hair off his forehead, Mowgli takes a step forward. His movements are slow and obvious as he approaches you. Continuing to dribble the ball, you keep your eyes focused on Mowgli's expression.

He thinks he's being sneaky, he thinks he's being secretive, but you know better, because right when Mowgli strikes, sweeping a foot in between your own, you tap up the ball with your toe, grab it between your heels, and hop passed him with a chuckle, all in one quick motion.

He never even touches the ball.

Mowgli grows frustrated by the eighth time you fake him out. He's already tripped over his own feet twice and scraped both his knees when he finally gives up. His smile is gone as you both take a seat on the porch step and decide that's enough for today.

You hate seeing him sad like this, and okay, maybe you could have held back on the teasing, but Mowgli has to learn perseverance and determination, which will definitely come in handy when playing defense. If you give up on your man and let him score a goal, that doesn't make you a very good soccer player, does it?

You ask Mowgli this question as you sit on the porch. All he does is sigh in reply, but you know he gets the point by the way he stares at the ground in thought.

**Day 4**

You let him steal the ball. Mowgli's so excited, he jumps up and down with his hands in the air. All you can do is roll your eyes with an amused smirk and promise yourself you'll never tell him you let him steal the ball from you on purpose.

You could tell he was losing confidence in himself. And you don't want that. You want him to love the game just as much as you do, and you figure that's not going to happen if you keep tripping him every time he comes after the ball.

**Day 5**

You allow him to dribble the ball. His movements are clumsy as he runs through the grass with his head down, the soccer ball at least six feet in front of him. After awhile, you can't take it anymore.

"Keep your head up, Mo!" you call out to him, wincing when he glances up at you with a big grin and trips over his own feet.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity, Mowgli jumps right back up and starts kicking the ball around in circles. He tries to keep his head up as much as possible, and you sigh, because this may be harder than you thought.

Shaking your head, you suppress the smile tugging at your lips and yell, "Use the inside of your feet for better control!"

Mowgli gives you a thumbs up, his long hair falling into his eyes as he races passed you.

**Day 6**

You observe Mowgli as he plays soccer with the other kids. Ever since you've been stretching and working out with Mowgli, he's seemed to become more flexible, coordinated, and confident with his soccer abilities.

He kicks the ball sloppily and with no real direction when he's playing with the other boys, but at least he's running on his toes and picking up his knees when he runs, making him much quicker than the others.

They still don't pass him the ball, and you kind of don't blame them. Carlos, that son of a bitch, continues to hog the ball, showing off like the ass he is. The other boys don't seem to care, running back and forth, back and forth, as Carlos kicks the ball into their handmade goal.

Sometimes you wish you were obnoxious enough to join the soccer boys just to show Carlos up, but since you know you're better, it would only make you look desperate for a victory.

"Did you see that, San?" Mowgli shouts, waving his hands at you from where he stands on the field. "Did you see?"

Honestly, you didn't see a thing. Without even realizing it, your mind had drifted off along with your thoughts. You were daydreaming of blonde hair, watching the clouds turn into the shape of thin lips, thinking about hazel irises.

Mowgli's still staring at you and waving his hands, so you quickly dismiss the irrelevant images in your head, paste on a smile, and give him a thumbs up.

* * *

Footsteps; slow and steady.

Whoever's approaching is surely taking their own sweet time. Maybe you should be afraid. Maybe you should go inside to hide. It's already getting dark out, what if the person approaching is dangerous?

But you don't move. You're not scared. And you don't run and hide. You continue to scribble mindlessly in your journal, not really writing anything significant, just drawing doodles of farm animals.

A shadow hovers over you, blocking the sun. It's strange, but when you lift your head, you're not really surprised to see her standing there with a Polaroid camera around her neck. Her expression remains blank as she lifts the camera up to her face and snaps a photo of you.

The flash goes off, and all you can see is white spots appearing in the darkness surrounding you. You blink and rub at your eyes. Quinn smiles down at you and waves the photo between her thumb and index finger. You're too charmed by the glint in her eye to really be annoyed by her actions.

Once you get your sight back, you gaze up at Quinn and narrow your eyes. "What are you doing here?" You know she's here for you, but the obnoxious teenage girl in you wants to hear her say it.

Quinn runs a hand through her short haircut. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, so you wait patiently, head cocked to the side as you tap your pencil against your journal.

"I saw Gabriel in town," Quinn eventually answers, taking a seat on the wooden step next to you. She scoots closer, barely leaving any space between the two of you. "He told me where to find you."

That doesn't really answer your question, but whatever. Shutting your journal, you hold it close to your chest and mutter, "Course he did."

(You're going to kill Mowgli when you see him.)

Quinn bows her head, trying to catch your eye, but when you continue to stare forward, she sighs heavily through her nose, frustrated. "Is there something wrong, Santana? Did my friends and I do something to insult you?"

You will yourself not to look her in the eyes, because that's when you'll lose all resolve. You shouldn't be this upset over something so stupid. You don't know Quinn. She doesn't know you. So why do you feel betrayed and abandoned?

You know girls like her; they'll only break your heart in the end. They make you feel loved and needed, and then when you least expect it, they stab you in the back.

It's not always in the most obvious of ways; they could easily be doing it by mistake, but it hurts nonetheless. It hurts like a bitch.

"There's nothing wrong, Quinn," you mumble, leaning your shoulder against the wooden post. "I'm fine."

Before you have a chance to pull your hand away, Quinn's holding it tightly between her own. She's looking at you curiously, head tilted to the side with a slight frown ghosting over her lips. "Is this about Sam?"

You snatch your hand away, eyebrows raised incredulously. "What?"

"I think he likes you," she explains.

You shrug a shoulder, because yeah, that's probably true, but who the hell cares?

Quinn rubs her palms together and adds, "He didn't do anything to make you feel uncomfortable, did he?"

Ducking your head, you let out a dry scoff. "No, _he _didn't do anything," you mutter, brushing the dirt off of your shorts as you stand up abruptly. Quinn stares after you as you climb the steps up to the porch. "You know what, forget it."

"How can I forget what I don't even know?"

Quinn's looking up at you, lips pressed together, eyes bright under the sunlight, and you can't concentrate or even remember what her question was in the first place.

You can't remember what you were so upset about. The outline of her jaw is even more defined the way she's holding her chin up defiantly, waiting for a response, an honest answer.

Rolling your eyes, you cock your head to the side and mutter, "You didn't tell me Puck's your boyfriend."

Quinn does a double take, seemingly flabbergasted by your accusation. "Puck's _not _my boyfriend." You're pretty certain you just heard wrong until she repeats, "Puck is _totally _not my boyfriend." She seems disgusted by the thought, and inwardly, it makes you want to smile, but you don't.

You swallow thickly, fingers fumbling around with the hem of your tank top. "He's...not?" Great, now you feel stupid. You always do this, Santana. You act like a know-it-all, coming up with false conclusions, pretending one thing means something else entirely just to protect your fragile heart.

"No," Quinn reiterates, eyeing you curiously as she stands up from the porch step. "Why do you care though?"

You're a couple of inches taller than her for once as you stand on the porch. It gives you the upper hand; makes you feel stronger, or maybe just less vulnerable. "I don't," you claim with a careless shrug of your shoulder.

Quinn doesn't look convinced but she nods her head anyway, taking a step up the porch and closer to you. "So, if you don't care, why have you been avoiding me?"

She's patronizing you, Santana. Look at her as she lick her lips like she's in control or something. She's enticing you. Flaunting around, showing off her charm and wits, knowing you want her, knowing you can never have her.

This is what girls like her do. They try to get under your skin and creep towards your heart, and before you know it, it's too late.

You don't respond, just swallow thickly, glancing down at Quinn's heaving chest as she continues to approach. "Is it because...I'm a bit wild when I'm drunk?" she singsongs, smiling cheekily. "Or...could it be my wonderful way with words that have you spinning out of control?"

Quinn's wide grin is infectious, and you find yourself smiling along with her before you can even think twice. She seems to take this as a good sign, slowly ascending the steps until she's standing in front of you again.

You hope you're not smiling too wide. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Can't help it."

Your cheeks hurt from trying to suppress your grin, so you bow your head and look down at the wooden planks. "It's getting late," you murmur, grabbing the handle of the screen door behind you. "I should get inside, and you should get back to your motel before it gets dark out."

Quinn glances toward the sunset out of the corner of her eye before refocusing her light eyes on you. "You're not gonna invite me inside?" she asks brazenly.

"My grandma's napping," you tell her, raising your eyebrows challengingly when Quinn gives you a disbelieving look. "And she usually doesn't like company when she's wearing her curlers, so..."

Quinn nods slowly, seeming to get the point as she takes a step back, leaving you with enough room to breathe again. "Okay," she says, but something about the way she looks at you makes you believe she wants to say something else. Eventually, all she does is rake her teeth over her bottom lip and whisper, "Goodnight, Santana."

You want to say it back. "Goodnight, Quinn," is right on the tip of your tongue, but instead, you say nothing as you watch her descend the steps and walk away, and something flutters in your chest when she looks over her shoulder and smiles.

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_I don't know how to feel. This is nothing new, but it's still equally as frustrating. I don't know how much longer I can go on this way. Without my brother, without Skye, without any hope._

_Quinn gives me hope. I don't think I'm a bad person. I might have done some bad things, but my actions shouldn't determine my fate. I suppose I deserved everything that came to me. I deserved the pain, the heartbreak, the isolation, the cold shoulder._

_What I didn't deserve? Abandonment._

_Knowing why a person is gone all of a sudden is one thing. But when you have no idea what you did to make someone leave you; that's when it hurts the most._


	5. cosas malas

**Chapter 5: cosas malas**

_Dear Journal,_

_Abuelita's teaching me how to knit. I used to think it was just some old woman activity, like __bingo__ and crochet, but it's not. Knitting is relaxing and calm, and it really helps me think._

_There's no talking involved, if you want. And when you really get good at it, you can even close your eyes and just breathe._

_I like to knit in the rocking chair on the porch, especially after the sun has set. There's a light on the porch, so I just sit there, rocking back and forth, and knit something useless, like a scarf or a knit hat, something I'd never really need back in Houston._

_In my sophomore year in high school, about a year after Jose left, I started taking anger management __classes__. It didn't really work. I came up with the breathing techniques all on my own._

_The only thing the instructors taught me to do was talk about my feelings and some other bullshit._

_The instructors should have offered knitting as a coping technique. It's really calming, helps me sort out my thoughts, and allows me to focus all of my negative energy on something productive._

_I wonder if Quinn likes beanies._

* * *

There's nothing better than some good home cooking when you're seven hundred miles away from home. Your dad was never a good cook. Somehow, you find this strange, especially the way your abuelita throws down.

She can make a great meal out of anything. Just yesterday, she made _estofado de tenera_ out of just a few random ingredients in the cupboard. At first look, the food looked so gross you thought it was a joke, but when Abuelita snatched your spoon out of your hand and shoved the stew into your mouth, you couldn't believe it.

(It was like a party in your mouth.)

As you and Mowgli sit at the kitchen table and wait for dinner to be ready, he quizzes you on what you've learned so far. Throughout the weeks, you've been getting better at _speaking _Spanish, but _understanding_ Spanish is a whole other thing in itself. The people here talk so fast, you'd think there was a fire somewhere, or that Timmy got stuck in a well again.

Mowgli flips through his own journal, lifting his head to ask, "¿De dónde eres?"

"Soy de Houston, Texas," you answer without a second thought.

"Bien," Mowgli smiles, squinting his eyes in thought. "¿Cuántos años tienes?"

You bite your bottom lip. This one always throws you off. "Tengo diecisiete años."

Mowgli doesn't say if you got it right or wrong, so you're going to assume it's the former. "¿De qué color es el sol?"

"El sol es amarillo," you respond, brushing off your shoulder cockily.

"Excelente." Mowlgi grins, clapping his hands together. "¿Cuántos cerdos le puede meter en una manta?"

Your abuelita laughs from where she's checking on the food in the oven. Mowgli's never asked this question before, so you have no idea what he's saying. Now, they're both laughing at your confused expression.

Rolling your eyes, you kick him in the shin under the table and mumble, "Ustedes son gente mala." It's not one of your best insults, but you're pretty limited when it comes to the Spanish language. "Puedo hacer cosas malas contigo. Las cosas malas."

They still laugh at you. Your abuelita is literally cracking up, bent over sideways as she wipes at the tears building in her eyes. You're not sure why, but Mexicans just love it when people who suck at Spanish try to speak the language. You're so used to the comical glances people give you, you can't even be offended anymore.

"One day, you two will regret laughing at Santana Lopez," you warn, staring your abuelita down as she breathes out a sigh of relief, trying her very hardest to quit laughing, though Mowgli's abruptly stopped his giggling, and the look he's giving you is a little creepy, so you lift an eyebrow and stare back. "What?"

"Your last name's Lopez?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Yeah..." you respond hesitantly, shrugging a shoulder, because you're not really sure why that matters.

Mowgli cocks his head to the side. "My last name is Lopez too," he whispers in amazement, nodding his head furiously. "Gabriel Tomás Romero Lopez."

(Well, that's a mouthful.)

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. Mowgli always seems to get excited over the smallest things. "And..." you trail off, shrugging your shoulders. "There are probably thousands of Lopezes in this country. It's a common last name, Mo."

Mowgli furrows his brows, looks down at the table, and nods his head, the excitement slowly deflating from his small body. "I suppose..." he mumbles, averting his eyes to the wall.

(Christ, why do you hate it so much when this kid is sad?)

"By the way," you speak up, uncomfortable with the sudden silence. "Quinn stopped by today."

Mowgli's ears perk up, and he stares at you guiltily. "You don't say?"

"Cut the crap, Mo," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "You shouldn't send strangers to other people's houses. Hell, you shouldn't even send strangers to your _own _house."

"She's not a stranger," Mowgli counters. "I see her in town every day. She asks about you and wonders why you're so shy, and I'm like, Santana is the total opposite-"

"She asks about me?" you interrupt, raising an eyebrow disbelievingly. It's flattering, you must admit, that Quinn's been basically stalking you for two weeks now.

"Santana?"

"Hm?" you murmur, distracted.

"I _said_," Mowgli repeats, seemingly irritated with your lack of response. "You totally have a crush on her. How is she a stranger if you have a cru-"

Jumping across the table, you clamp the palm of your hand over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up," you breath out through gritted teeth, glancing hesitantly over your shoulder.

Abuelita's busily stirring a pot on the stove as she hums a song under her breath, so you assume she didn't hear anything.

(Not like she'd understand anyway.)

You settle back into your seat, wiping Mowgli's saliva off your hand with a napkin. "I can't believe you licked me, you moron," you huff, ducking your head to whisper, "And I don't have a crush on her."

"I'm eleven, not stupid," Mowgli whispers back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "You like her, just admit it."

You eye him skeptically. You're not used to people being this accepting of your sexuality, especially here in Mexico. That's why you've decided to keep it a secret from your abuelita. Your family knows; they've known for quite awhile now, and they're fine with it, but you know everyone isn't as liberal as them.

"I don't judge," Mowgli reassures you with a shrug, sensing your skepticism. "My uncle's gay." The way he says it so easily; it kind of reminds you of when you told your family you were gay.

Your mother had just shrugged her shoulder and said, "I know, mija. And I still love you." Your father was sitting on the couch, entraced by the football game in front of him. At first, you didn't think he heard you, but after a seconds delay, he glanced at you and murmured, "I'm so proud of you, hon."

You think your brother's reaction was the best of them all. He had been sitting next to your dad, his legs thrown over the armrest comfortably. You remember the way he had rolled his eyes and scoffed, "It's about time you came out. I was getting tired of pretending to act dumb, since eveyone here knows I'm the smartest in this house."

He had smiled then, sending you a private wink that no one saw but you. And in that wink, you'd received everything you would need to stay true to yourself.

You offer him a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. "How do you know I'm gay?" you question, pursing your lips challengingly.

"You're not?"

"No, I am," you say, smirking when Mowgli rolls his eyes at you. "It's not cool to just assume though."

Leaning over the table with his elbows propped up, Mowgli raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice, whispering, "So, do you like her or not?"

Quickly peeking over your shoulder, you release a heavy sigh and admit, "Okay, maybe I do like her...kinda."

"Just _kinda_?" he repeats, looking at you skeptically.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you lean back in your chair and murmur, "Just kinda."

* * *

"Hey, baby." It's only been a month, yet you can't describe how good it feels to hear her voice.

"Hi, Ma," you murmur, sinking into the sheets in your bed. It's a cool night, and if Abuelita doesn't have air conditioning, there's no way she has heat.

You don't hear anything for awhile, then, "What's wrong, hon?"

Smiling crookedly, because somehow, she always seems to sense when there's something out of the ordinary, you wrap your arm around your legs and whisper, "What makes you think there's something wrong?"

"I breastfed you," she chuckles, a lightness to her voice that makes you feel closer to home. "We are connected forever. I will always know when there's something wrong with you."

You screw up your face in distaste. "Gross."

"Seriously, though," your mother continues, sighing into the speaker of the phone. "Is this about Abuelita? Are you guys not getting along?"

You think your abuelita and you have been getting along swell. You're not used to building relationships so easily with people. You're naturally guarded, building walls to keep people out. Not because you're afraid of them hurting _you_; quite the contrary actually.

You fear many things, but the scariest thing is letting people in just to break their heart. You've done it before, and you never want to do it again.

"It's not about her. She's fine," you tell her, draping a handwoven quilt around your shoulders. It's blue and yellow and red; your three favorite colors. Blue; the sky at night. Yellow; the sun during the day. Red; the blood pumping through your veins. "We're fine," you continue, pausing for a moment to breathe through your nose. "I just..."

You never finish your sentence, but Ma picks up the slack, prompting, "You just..."

"I met a girl." The words come out fast and sloppy, and if you hadn't been thinking about saying it aloud for awhile now, you would've had no idea what you just said.

Ma's seemed to put the jumbled mess of your words together. "_Oh_, I see..." she says, and you roll your eyes at the teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah," you mumble, because it's all you can think of to say. In the beginning of the summer, the last time you had spoken to your mom, the two of you joked about meeting a girl. You meant it as a joke, a way to get rid of the lingering feelings of Skye in your mind. You had meant it to reassure your mother and yourself that you were ready to move on, yet...

There's a brief silence where all you can hear is Mr. Ramos' hound dog howling from across the street and into the night. "What's her name?" Ma speaks up again after a period of ten seconds. You know this because you were holding your breath and counting, like always.

(Always counting.)

Despite your conflicting emotions, you smile as you whisper her name. "Quinn..." It makes your tongue feel numb, your fingers tingle, your heart race, your toes prickle.

Your mom chuckles, and you bite your bottom lip to keep from giggling like a school girl. "You seem to like girls with only one syllable as their name," she says in a teasing manner.

You groan, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Ma..."

"Okay, okay," she drawls, but you can still hear the goofy grin in her voice. "Sorry."

You lay back in bed and rest your head down on your pillow. The room is dark, so you can't see the ceiling, but you know it's there and that's a comforting thought. Your mom hasn't said anything in awhile, but you can hear her breathing over the phone, and somehow, it's comforting knowing she is there for you without her actually being _here_ with you.

"I just..." you start, then pause, because you don't know what to say. Eventually, after a moment of thought, you whisper, "I know Skye and I broke up, but somehow it still feels wrong."

"Even more than before?" Ma wonders aloud.

You suck in a gallon of air, your chest rising like an inflated hot air balloon. "_Way _more," you exhale, slowly letting the air out of your body.

"Guilt?" she presses.

You loll your head back and forth in thought. "Some guilt, but mostly..."

"But mostly..." she prompts, pushing you to finish your incomplete sentence. Your mom always says it's important to complete a thought, because there's no telling what can happen if you refuse to release it and set it free.

"But..." you continue, folding your right arm under your head. "Mostly regret."

* * *

You wonder if you should be concerned Mowgli's talked to Quinn more than you have. You wonder what he's told her about you, or what she's told him. You wonder if it's really a good idea to be getting into whatever it is you're getting into, knowing you have to go back home in a little over a month. You wonder if it's really smart to start falling before you've even landed on two feet yet.

The breeze out here is nice. Every time the wind blows, your hair flies into your face, but you don't move it. You just wait for another breeze to push your hair out of the way again.

You swing your legs back and forth, and you tap your fingers on the wooden pier on which you sit. Quinn told Mowgli to tell you to meet her here, so here you are, waiting on the pier and watching the sunrise.

White sailboats bob in the water in a long line along the wooden pier. Sweaty men with bronze skin mop the deck and untie the ropes from their dock, readying themselves for a long day at sea. Seagulls squawk as they fly above you and perch themselves on the top of the sails. Squinting your eyes, you watch as they fight over french fries and poop all over the decks of the boats.

The sun is blaring today, but it's not as hot and humid as usual. As you look up at the sky, you watch the clouds float passed the sun. Another breeze passes, and you briefly decide today would be a great day for sailing.

"Bonjour, jolie dame."

You turn your head, and there she is, standing behind you with these dark aviator shades. Inwardly, you want to scoff. She speaks French too. It figures.

Quinn's smirking, like usual, hands on her hips. Your eyes immediately go to her sun kissed legs. They're so shiny, especially when the sun glows against them.

(You wonder what they feel like.)

You try not to smile, but it happens anyway. "What did you call me?" you ask, arching an eyebrow as she pulls up her sunglasses and rests them on the top of her head.

She sits beside you, staring forward as the sun rises higher in the pink sky. You can feel her body heat. If you scooted closer, you'd be able to feel the softness of her skin, but you stay put and hope for contact later.

"Pretty lady," she tells you, sending you that coy smile; the one that makes her eyes glow; the one that makes your breath hitch; the one you absolutely can't resist.

(And you think she knows this.)

Shaking your head, you send her a smile before looking back down at the water beneath you. "Aren't you the charmer..."

"That's me," she singsongs, and you don't really know how to reply, so you just sit there and remain silent.

The sun has fully risen. The seagulls are gone; you think Quinn's confident presence scared them off. Glancing to your side, you quirk an eyebrow and cough into your fist. You don't know why you're here, why Quinn told Mowgli to tell you to come here, or what you're waiting for.

You're just about to ask when Quinn speaks first. "I got us breakfast," she says, leaning to the side as she digs through her pocket. Her shoulder brushes against yours as she pulls out a shiny apple and drops it into your hand.

"An apple," you murmur, staring down at the red fruit, amused.

Quinn smiles and nods, reaching into her backpack. You watch with a raised eyebrow as she pulls out a banana and holds it up with a smirk. "Fruit is good for you," she states, slowly peeling the banana like she has all day, and you suppose she does. "What's your favorite fruit?"

"Honeydew melon," you respond without a second thought, wiping the apple against your shirt before taking a hearty bit out of it.

"Honeydew melon?" Thin pink lips quirk upward. Hazel eyes shine under the sunlight. Furrowing your brow, you nod your head slowly, unsure of what's so amusing. Quinn leans back on her elbows and stares forward with an easygoing smile. "I had a dream last night."

The conversation just did a 180 turn, but you don't mind. Better than talking to your abuela about boys and marriage and silkworm tuxedos. Squinting your eyes, you consider her for a moment. "Yeah?" you say, looking closely into her eyes.

Quinn sits up with an airy laugh, knitting her eyebrows together in thought. "Yeah," she responds, scratching the side of her head. "It was a little trippy, so brace yourself."

A ghost of a smile appears on your lips, but you try to constrict it as much as possible. "I think I can handle it."

There's this look in her hazel eyes that you can't quite decipher as she looks out into the ocean. The smile on her cheeks slowly disappear, but she's not frowning. Her lips are a straight line, a mixture of conflict and resolution in her soft features.

"I was standing on an empty highway. I was alone, and it was raining..." A long beat, and you wait patiently as Quinn nibbles on her lower lip. "I was soaking wet, water dripping down my neck, drenching my hair and clothes," she murmurs, rubbing the side of her arm up and down.

(You realize it's a nervous tick, and you smirk at learning something new about her.)

"There was something wrong. I didn't know it, but I could feel it," Quinn continues, squinting her eyes as the sun reflects against the surface of the ocean. "There was a tunnel only a few yards away, I think. And somewhere around me, it smelled. Like, a sewer or something. Then, the dream ended."

You try to imagine it, but all you can picture is your own dream from a few weeks ago. You haven't dreamed since then, and the realization of this is a little unnerving.

"What does it mean?"

"Huh?"

Quinn grins wryly, pulling her sunglasses back down in front of her eyes. "My dream," she clarifies, tilting her head sideways in question. "Do you know what it means?"

Your dreams never seem to mean anything significant, but that doesn't mean other dreams don't. Bowing your head, you mentally run through everything you've noticed since you met Quinn, but nothing you recall adds up with the happenings in her nightly visions.

Lifting your head, you look at yourself in the reflection of her dark shades. "No," you whisper, because this moment feels heavy for some reason, and you don't want to destroy the silence by being overly boastful. "I don't really know how to interpret dreams anyway."

"My dad used to be great at interpreting dreams." Quinn shrugs her shoulders, peeling down her banana further before taking another bite out of it. You bite your apple and chew with her, and when she swallows, so do you. "He used to..." Here she pauses to wet her lips, and you can't take your eyes away from the glossy residual left behind. "He would see a dream as a puzzle, slowly putting the pieces together. He'd dissect the whole thing, like a corpse, then put it back together until the body was alive again."

(Her words are like poetry, and you wonder if she keeps a journal too.)

Another breeze drifts by, alerting you to the strange silence between you. You wring your fingers together and look out onto the ocean. Although your dad's a doctor, he's not really as receptive as what Quinn describes her father to be.

Your dad is a logical thinker; he likes formulas and equations and laws and theories. Dream interpretation takes creativity and thinking out of the box and a vast knowledge of a mental world that doesn't even exist.

Your mouth opens, but then you close it, shaking your head. Eventually you open your mouth again, because you can't take the odd silence anymore. "Your dad sounds...wondrous," you settle on, not used to serving compliments to people you don't even know.

(Hell, you can barely compliment the people you _do_ know.)

You take another bite out of your apple when you realize the air is slowly turning it into a gross brown color. Your cheeks puff up like a hamster as you chew, and you feel like a fat ass for taking such a huge bite, but at least you don't have to think of something to fill the beat in conversation now.

You've finished your apple, and yet, still no words are exchanged. Quinn hasn't finished eating her banana, but you don't think she's hungry anymore by the way she's stopped licking her lips.

Biting your lip, you glance her way and ask, "Do you mind me asking why we're out here?"

Quinn crinkles her nose and blows a strand of hair out of her face. "Oh, right," she sighs in remembrance, and you smile at the way she knits her blonde eyebrows together.

She doesn't answer for a moment, letting the suspension float in the air, then she smiles and says, "We're waiting."

"For?" you prod, raising a brow.

She shakes her head in amusement. "You need to relax, San."

"Excuse me?"

"I said you need to relax," Quinn repeats, chuckling at the confused expression on your face. You were actually questioning the sudden nickname she's bestowed upon you, but whatever. "Why are you so impatient?"

"I'm not impatient." Actually, you are. Very much so, but that's beside the point. "I just want to know why-"

"Let's just sit here and enjoy the beauty of the morning," Quinn advises, leaning into you, and you sigh breathlessly at the scent of lilacs and summer filling your senses. "It's going to be an amazing day. I can just feel it."

You're not really sure what to say to that, so yet again, you don't say anything. It seems like the logical response, but eventually you become overwhelmed by your impatience and beg, "Please tell me why we're waiting." You know you're pathetic, but that's okay when it comes to her. You can see her resistance cracking, so you purse your lips and singsong, "Pretty please..."

Quinn scoffs, shaking her head back and forth with an amused smirk spread across her lips. "We're waiting for my friend, Mando," is all she says, peeking over the pier and down at the blue water beneath her swinging feet. "He'll be here soon."

* * *

All of your questions are finally answered when Mando shows up. His real name is Armando. Well, at least that's what you think you heard.

He can speak English, but he has a pretty thick accent. You can't really understand a word he says unless you're staring right at his mouth when he speaks, which is kind of weird, so you try not to do that when he's talking to you. You just smile and nod when you have no idea what he's talking about, and it's seemed to work so far, so.

Quinn calls him Mando. Apparently she gives all of her friends nicknames, not just you, and for some reason, that makes your head hurt. They've known each other for awhile; ever since she first came to Mexico and started this program during her freshmen year in college.

Armando is young and tall, with curly light brown hair. He looks to be about the same age as Quinn, and you suppose you would be threatened by him if he didn't show you a picture of his wife and three kids right after introducing himself.

Armando's a boat keeper. He's from a long line of boat keepers, actually. His whole family has been in this business for decades. His father was a boat keeper, and his father's father was a boat keeper, and his father's father's father was a boat keeper.

(Honestly, you can go all day.)

You look at his boat; Rodriguez is written in script across the body of the white sailboat. There's at least twelve other boats on this dock with the name Rodriguez plastered on it.

There's no telling how rich these people are, and it kind of pisses you off how they flaunt their riches in everybody's faces, especially in a poor town like this, where people work hard and sweat all of the liquid out of their bodies for a living.

Your abuelo worked hard too; he was a _strong _fisherman. You've seen pictures of him around the house. He had a light complexion, bronze hair, and gray eyes to match your father's.

You imagine him working out here; sweat gathering on his temple as he lifts heavy crates under the hot sun, his muscles straining as he works hard for his family to bring home a steady income. He probably worked on a boat just like this, everyday, going out to sea, throwing out nets, deboning slimy fish, mopping the deck, organizing the bait.

You wonder if Armando knew your grandfather, but you suppose he was much too young to remember anything before Abuelo got sick.

It happened fast, his death. One day, he was as strong as an ox, then the next, as weak as a sloth. You assume he probably caught some disease out at sea, and since he was getting older, his immune system wasn't what it used to be and couldn't fight the infection.

It's been thirteen years since he passed, yet Abuelita still rarely leaves the house unless it's to go to church. You never accompany her. It's not that you don't believe in God, it's just...

Armando takes you out on his sailboat. Quinn smiles at you with an arched eyebrow as she takes your hand and helps you onto the rocking boat.

You kind of wonder how many people Quinn has done this for in the past. You don't know why, but something about her just isn't quite right. She seems like one of _those _girls; the kind who are all fun and flirty. The kind who like to show off and impress you until you fall head over heels for them.

(And it's working.)

You _are _impressed with her, and you _do _like how fun and flirty she is, especially when she gives you _that _look as she pulls her shirt over her head and tugs her shorts off, revealing a skimpy white bikini underneath.

Your mouth goes dry, the last recognizably dry part of your body, as you trail your eyes down her body. She's nothing like Skye, thankfully. Her skin is tanner, her body is firmer, hips curvier.

She takes a towel out of her backpack and rolls it out on the deck with a smirk. You don't notice you're staring until Quinn looks up at you, her shades perched on the tip of her nose as she says, "You're staring."

"Sorry," you murmur, clearing your throat as you avert your eyes to the water. You're so far out at sea, you can't even see the shoreline anymore. You're not sure where Armando is; probably steering the boat or something important like that.

Quinn pats her towel, gesturing for you to take a seat next to her, and after a moment of consideration, you sit down and cross your legs. "Don't be sorry," she chuckles, running a hand through her short hair. "You can look if you want."

You're kind of surprised your jaw hasn't hit the deck yet. Quinn's giving you this look, the one you can't quite read. It's a mixture between flirty and innocent, and it has your head spinning.

You dip your eyebrows and crinkle your nose. "I can look..." It's not a question, just a skeptical sentence, because you're puzzled, so very puzzled by her.

Quinn's only response is a quick shrug of her shoulder. It happens so fast, you would have missed it if you blinked.

Now that you have her permission to do so, you let your eyes linger on her firm abs as you grab the hem of your tank top, feeling a bit brazen suddenly. Quinn's hands rest on yours, brazen as well, and helps you pull off your shirt with a pleased expression on her face.

"Nice honeydew melons," she teases, her eyes practically glued to your chest, and when you nudge her in the shoulder, she chuckles; her laughter is throaty, and you shiver.

(You're not sure if it's because of the cool breeze, or Quinn's breezy voice.)

With a sigh, Quinn lays back on the towel, and after a beat, you lay next to her, your heads right next to each other. You can see the tip of her nose by glancing out the corner of her eye. You wonder if she can see you too.

"If you had to make a choice between honeydew melons and bananas, which would you pick?" you ask softly, folding your arms behind your head.

Quinn purses her lips through a grin. "We're not talking about the fruit anymore, are we?"

(She sure is perceptive, isn't she?)

"No, we're not," you answer, turning your head to watch her, to catch her reaction. She's calm and collected, like always, hands resting on her sleek stomach as she looks up at the sky underneath her dark shades.

"I like pineapples," she responds eventually, turning her head to face you. "Did you put any sunscreen on?" Before you have a chance to answer, she's sitting up and raking through her backpack. "Turn over," she instructs, and as you roll over on your stomach, you're amazed at how good she is at changing the subject.

Her hands are cold when she first touches you, and you flinch. Quinn laughs, and you can't help but smile as her fingers skate over your skin, covering every inch of your back and shoulders in creamy, white lotion.

"Turn over," she repeats, and again, you roll over on your back and look up at the sun as her hands find your stomach and lather you up. The sky is blinding, and you have to squint your eyes as you gaze up at her.

Quinn's shades are perched on the top of her head, hazel eyes focused on your clenching stomach muscles as she massages your skin and skims the underside of your breasts every now and then. You squirm, trying to hold in a giggle, because _gosh_, that tickles.

Her features are so soft. And her lips are so pouty. Quinn's smiling down at you, and you frown, because her lips are so close to yours, but then they're not. You raise your eyebrows and call out to her.

The next thing you hear is a splash of water after seeing her jump off the sailboat, blonde hair flying high, arms flapping frantically, legs kicking around in the air. You laugh when drops of water sprinkle you, and the feeling is refreshing. Without thinking twice, you stand, you tug off your shorts, and you jump in after her with a giddy scream.

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_Today, Quinn jumped off a boat, and I followed her. That kind of scares me in a way. I can almost hear Ma's voice in my head, scolding me about peer pressure and individualism and personal security._

_It's ten o'clock at night and I'm already in bed. My legs are under the covers, but my back is leaning against the headboard as I write and think and write._

_My pencil has worn out, and I'm afraid of what to do once the point snaps._

_Abuelita doesn't have many writing utensils around here. I found this pencil under my bed. It was dusty and broken in half, but it was something._

_The point is dull, and it's hard to write in script with it, but this summer I've been learning how to cope, so I suck it up and deal with it, just like everything else._

* * *

The mariachi band must be off on Tuesdays. The town square is quiet, too quiet, and it's hard to admit, but you think you may actually miss the sound of their guitars and maracas and trumpets and tambourines. You miss their bright colors, blinding smiles, twinkling eyes, joyful voices. All you can hear is the soft murmur of people in the background, and it makes you feel itchy.

Santo Amor isn't much of a tourist attraction. There are a lot of beautiful sites to see and historical monuments to document, but the town is rundown and poor and dangerous. You'd be scared to leave your front door if the townspeople didn't somehow know you were the granddaughter of Rita Lopez.

You're outside Mowgli's favorite restaurant, eating lunch like it's your last meal. Mowgli munches on a chicken bone. All of the meat is gone, but he's a growing boy, so you suppose he's still hungry. You'd give him some of the chicken wings on your plate if you weren't starving as well.

"So, did you tell Quinn you like her yet?" he asks, twisting the bone between his pursed lips.

You chew quickly in order to answer him, because you don't want a question like that hanging in the air for too long. "I just met her, Mo," you huff, setting the piece of chicken on your plate. "What do you want from me?"

Mowgli licks his lips, his dark eyes focused your plate. You're pretty sure it's the chicken he wants, but instead, he says, "I want you to be a man and suck it up."

Pushing your plate across the table, you smile, amused. "I'm a bad influence, aren't I?"

Mowgli's eyes grow twice as wide as he digs into your plate, grabbing the juiciest chicken bone he can find. "The worst," he chuckles, nodding in agreement. "The absolute worst."

You know he's only joking, but you can't help but wonder how many people would agree with this assessment of you. It scares you, but that's okay.

(You're used to it.)


	6. Tus Viejas Cartas

**Chapter 6: Tus Viejas Cartas**

_1:42am_

You yawn. Your body is tired, but your mind won't cooperate and fall asleep. You don't have a bedtime or anything, but there's not much to do here at night, so you curl into your sheets and stare out the window.

The moon is gleaming through the curtains, and you sigh, because why does the moon always seem so sad compared to the sun? You wonder if this is how people see Quinn and yourself. She's just so bright and exuberant; it wouldn't be too shocking to discover people like her better.

You've always been second best. Jose; he's brilliant, an absolute genius, some might say. He never really applied himself in school, but you suppose he didn't really need to. He'd pass tests without ever studying. He'd ace quizzes without taking notes. He even scored a 2200 on his SATs, 400 points higher than you.

A late night talk show buzzes on the television through your door. You can hear more static than actual talking. But over the static, you can hear your grandma snoring louder than a wildebeest.

You can see it now; Abuelita in her napping chair, head tilted back, glistening drool pooling down her jaw, shining against the glow of the television. Most nights are like this; quiet, lackluster, slow, boring.

Yeah, that's it. Boring. You're bored. This town is mesmerizing; the sites are surely something to behold, but there's no denying the obvious truth that there's nothing to do here.

Sighing, because the full moon really is depressing tonight, you reach under your pillow and pull out your journal. The cover is brown and dingy, random pieces of thread hanging off the corners. The pages are wrinkled, yellow, and torn, but those aspects just add to the vintage feel of your latest entry.

_Dear Journal,_

_When I was seven years old, my best friend Chance died. __Car accident__, my mother said._

_"So, so sad," my dad kept repeating, "So, so sad." In the back of my mind, I remembered Chance's mom always allowed him to sit in the front seat of their truck, and I was jealous of him._

_I wasn't jealous of him anymore._

_I was overwhelmed and scared and lost, and I couldn't stop crying. And now I wonder; maybe that's why I can't cry anymore._

_When you're seven, the kid you spend the most time with is automatically called your best friend, the person you're suppose to know like the back of your hand, but years later, when I met his sister, I discovered I really didn't know Chance at all._

_Chance and I would color together all the time, but I didn't even know his favorite color was orange. We'd watched television at my house on the weekends, but I never knew his favorite show was Rugrats. In the summer, we'd carefully track down Mr. Softee's truck, but I never realized his favorite ice cream flavor was chocolate fudge._

_And most shocking of all, I didn't even know Chance had a twin sister until I met Skye, who had attended private school instead of Alcott Elementary because she was "gifted."_

_To lose a sibling is one thing, but a twin? I can't even begin to fathom. It had been years - four years, precisely - after Chance's death when I met Skye._

_Bright blue eyes, pitch black hair, ghostly pale skin. Skye was beautiful, though she looked like an exact replica of Chance, just the opposite sex, and it had me reeling. I was afraid of her for awhile, because she was like a ghost._

_I'd forgotten about Chance after awhile, but seeing Skye was like a slap in the face, a cold bucket of water, snapping me out of my fog, forcing me to remember him._

_When I got home, I told my mom what I saw. "There's a girl at school who looks just like Chance," I said, "Just like Chance."_

_Ma just released a sigh before pulling me into her arms._

_I didn't understand until the last day of fifth grade. I walked home that day, because I missed the bus when I went back to my last period class to fetch my jacket._

_I saw Skye on my walk home, strolling carefully on the other side of the street, refusing to step on a crack lest she break her mother's back._

_I think she saw me, but we stayed on our separate sidewalks, walking home in the same exact direction. My house came up first, and right when I turned down my driveway, I heard a voice call my name. I turned around, and there she was, Skye, standing before me like an angel of the past here to deliver my wings and take me with her back to Heaven; back to Chance._

_"You were his best friend," she said, tucking her hands deep into her pockets, as if she just wanted to disappear. This must have taken a lot of courage, I thought to myself, as I watched Skye nibble on her bottom lip._

_I had just nodded, unable to speak for my voice was stuck in my throat._

_"I knew before my parents told me what happened," she choked out, tears building in her blue eyes, "Something nauseated me, and I started vomiting. I couldn't stop, so my teacher sent me down to the nurse. I asked Nurse Benson about my brother, but she wouldn't tell me anything, so I continued to vomit."_

_Skye hesitated like she wanted to continue, but I supposed that was the end of the story, because then she left, and I didn't speak to her until the first day of the sixth grade._

_That night, though, I googled the words Twin Telepathy, and I learned one more thing from Chance; the connection between two people can be both truly beautiful and the most haunting experience to ever exist._

_._

_._

_._

The journal feels ready to fall apart in your hands once you finish writing. You drop the dull pencil on your bed and close the book. Tears build in your eyes, and all you can see is a blurry canvas.

If you blink, the tears will spill over, but you don't cry, you _never _cry, so you just stare forward until the tears evaporate and the flood lessens. Your eyes itch and burn, and this is how you fall asleep. Itching and burning.

* * *

Can it rain if there are no clouds in the sky? These are the things you think about when you do the dishes and peer out the kitchen window. It's sunny, as usual, not a cloud in the sky.

It hasn't rained all summer. You wonder how long it would take for the whole ocean to dry up if it never rained again. It doesn't rain much in Houston either, but you live in a brownstone in the city, so at least there's air condition there.

You're inside the house, but you're still sweating through your clothes. It's gross and sticky and wet. You don't think you should ever ever feel this wet unless you're in the middle of some rough and dirty sex.

The water from the sink pours over your hands. It's hot water, ironically, which just makes you feel even warmer. It's like you're burning in hell. You can hear every gasp of breath you take, desperately searching for some fresh, cool air to inhale. Your lungs contract, and maybe it would be a good idea to stop smoking, because it's starting to get hard to breathe.

"Abuelita, I'm dying..." you whine, scrubbing a patch of green mush off the last dish in the sink. The damn fuck won't come off the plate. You're so frustrated, you want to smash the fucking dish and cut yourself with it. It's the most morbid thought you've had since the last time you saw Skye.

Sluggish footsteps shuffle into the kitchen. You smirk at the angry expression on your grandma's face when you turn around. "Siempre caliente," she mutters, throwing the freezer door open and sticking her head in.

"Not _this _hot," you counter, turning off the sink. Abuelita groans at your complaining and throws a pack of peas at you without warning. You try to dodge it, but you're not fast enough.

The cold peas smack you right in the side of the face. Although the pack of peas are cool against your cheeks, there's also an unwanted stinging sensation left over after the peas fall to the floor. You hold your cheek with a grimace and look incredulously at the grin stretched across your grandma's lips.

"Abuse," you accuse, pointing a finger dead at her.

Abuelita chuckles, shaking her head. "No abuso," she sighs, picking up the pack of peas. You flinch when she places it softly on your burning cheek. "Amor duro," she concludes, gently patting your other cheek.

This feels like one of those moments; a moment where someone makes a heartfelt confession or declaration. You're not about to let this opportunity pass, so you prepare to tell your grandmother the truth, that you don't have a boyfriend because you don't like boys like that.

The words are right on the tip of your tongue, but before you can get them out, you hear the muffled sound of a car honking. This is nothing out of the usual, of course. Your grandma practically lives in the hood, so you hear all kinds of unsettling noises all the time. For instance, last week, you could have sworn you heard some gunshots going off in the distance.

What _is _out of the usual?

_That _voice calling _your _name, yelling, "Santana, get your sweet ass out here!"

Furrowing your brows, you peel the cold pack of peas off your face and glance out the window. Sitting on the curb is an old, broken down pickup truck. You smirk at the way Quinn's leaning against the truck with an arched eyebrow over her dark shades.

Mike's sticking his head out the window next to Quinn, and Sam's sitting in the back without a shirt, oiling up his body with gallons of sunscreen. From where you're standing, you can only guess who's in the driver seat.

"¿Quién es ella?" Abuelita asks, peering out the kitchen window beside you.

You're not exactly sure how to answer. Of course she's your friend, but...could it be more than that? You're not one of those girls who immediately label something a relationship just because a girl flirts with you. You're not _that _much of a prude. Though, you feel something with Quinn, and you definitely don't want to lie to your abuelita.

"Ella..." you begin, scratching the side of your sweaty neck. "Ella es mi..._special _amiga."

Abuelita looks at you for a moment, and you hold your breath, wondering if she catches your drift. After another moment, she smiles wide and tells you to have fun, but not _too _much fun.

(You're still not sure if she gets it, but whatever.)

* * *

There's air condition in this car. That's your first thought when you enter the pickup truck. Your second thought? Puck's glare is even more annoying through the rearview mirror. You try to ignore him the best you can.

"Where are we going?"

You're question was directed at Quinn, but Mike, with his eagerness and overexcitement, takes it upon himself to answer your question. "We're going to El Gran Fuente," he tells you, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. "Just don't drink the water or you might catch mouth herpes." You try not to gag at the thought, because that's kind of gross.

You catch Puck in the rearview mirror as he rolls his eyes in amusement at his friend. It's the first time you've seen him without that mean scowl on his face. When he's not sending you a death glare, he actually seems pretty human.

You're not sure about Puck and Quinn's history or past relationship. All you know is that they're close enough for Quinn to allow him to put his crusty lips on her neck

You grimace at the memory and look out the window.

Mike turns up the radio and begins to sing to the music once you're driving down the highway. His voice isn't very good, but he just seems so into it as he shrugs his shoulders to the beat that you can't really find it in yourself to care.

After awhile, Quinn joins in, singing at the top of her lungs. She's just as bad as Mike, but you can tell she's not really trying, just singing for the hell of it. You smile when she wiggles her eyebrows and dances in her seat, pointing at you and curling her finger enticingly.

Sam scares the hell out of you when he sticks his head through the back window and starts singing as well. The only two people not singing are Puck and yourself. You're self-conscious when it comes to your voice. You have some pretty good singing pipes, sure, but it's not something you like to show-off often.

Puck's lips remain pressed together firmly, his grey eyes focused on the street in front of him. He won't sing today. He won't give you the pleasure, or anyone else in the car an opportunity to see him with his guard down.

Maybe he'd be singing if you weren't in the car. Maybe, today, he'd be joking around with his friends, shamelessly flirting with Quinn, singing like he's a famous pop star, smiling wide with a smirk of the Joker.

But, you suppose, quite smugly, that today's just not that day.

* * *

You're not sure how long it's been when the car stops. Opening your eyes groggily, you realize you must have dozed off.

Peeking out the window, you squint your eyes against the bright sun and yawn. You're expecting to see a grand fountain with clear water bursting out of the ground, but instead, all you see is a huge, dusty landscape.

You hear Quinn curse under her breath, and when you turn your head to look her way, she's smacking Puck in the head, yelling at him about stupidity and gas and empty tanks and rising temperatures.

(And that's when you panic.)

Apparently, you're in the middle of nowhere with no fuel or water or food as it gets hotter and hotter by the minute. You can already feel a drop of sweat sliding down your temple, all the way to your chin.

Wiping the patch of sweat away, you hop out of the truck after Quinn and try to find out what's going on without looking too freaked out over your current situation.

As Quinn yells at Puck, Mike pulls his shirt off and wraps it around the top of his head as if he's walking through a desert in the Middle East. You roll your eyes at the sight of it, briefly wishing you could just easily take your shirt off as well.

You're sure none of the guys would mind if you walked around shirtless, but you still have _some _dignity left, so you reluctantly keep your clothes on, choosing to die in the blistering heat instead.

"Hey, it's not my fault," Puck huffs, kicking at the tire of his pickup truck in frustration. "I could've sworn the tank was full when we pulled off."

"Just shut up, Puck. Gosh, you always do this," Quinn exasperates, throwing her hands up in the air. "When will you ever do anything right? It's always the same with you."

Puck flares his nostrils, and you wonder if he's silently counting to ten like you do when you get worked up. "Why are you making this personal?" he mutters, his voice much lower than before.

You realize he probably doesn't want anyone to hear this discussion between them, but there's nothing out here for miles. You're literally in the middle of nowhere, so it's not exactly easy to avoid eavesdropping.

Quinn blows out a breath of air and places a hand on her hip. "You know this has nothing to do with us," she whispers, letting her anger flow out of her pores and out into the humid air. "I'm just...you of all people should know how I get when I'm hot."

Puck chuckles, a wry smile forming on his lips. You want to punch the dumb look off his face, but you doubt that would impress Quinn, and you really don't feel like icing bruised knuckles later on tonight, so you take a deep breath, count to ten, and join Sam and Mike in the back of the pickup truck.

Sam smiles at you when you settle in next to him. The look in his eyes; it's like he understands or something, so you reach into your pocket, pull out a pack of cigarettes and hold it out to him. He smirks and pulls a cig out of the white box.

As he holds the cigarette between his lips, you put the lighter up to his mouth and light it. When you offer the box to Mike, he just shakes his head and says, "I don't smoke," and you hold back the urge to mutter, _You fucking prude._

(Whatever, more for you then.)

You take a cig out for yourself, light it up, suck in a breath of nicotine, flare your nostrils, and exhale through your nose like a fierce dragon. You're all quiet, listening to the soft whispers of Quinn and Puck's muffled argument.

They think they're being quiet, secretive. They're really not, because you can almost hear every other word.

Quinn: "You're...jackass...pain in the...so fucking stupid."

Puck: "All your nagging...happy we're over...can't stand this heat."

Quinn: "How hard is it...no gas in the car...we're gonna die."

Puck: "White girl problems...get some help...tired of this shit."

Quinn: "Fucking pig...getting hotter out...sweating like a butcher."

Puck: "Sounds nasty...herpes are worse...Barbra Streisand."

You raise an eyebrow when the whispering comes to an abrupt stop. Mike and Sam don't seem to be paying much attention. Mike's standing up, shuffling his feet as if he has to pee or something. To keep his mind off his full bladder, he stretches his arm high in the air as he holds his phone, searching for a signal.

Sam's eyes are closed as he blows out a puff of smoke, bobbing his head to the music playing through his earphones. The five of you are surely a sight out here. Mike has to pee, you're starving, Sam is about to pass out, Quinn is _hot_, and Puck is five seconds away from exploding.

"You smoke?"

Her voice, so loud and firm, startles the shit out of you. Flinching, you whip your head sideways, and there's Quinn, standing right in back of you with her eyebrows raised curiously.

You shrug a shoulder and pull the cigarette out from between your lips. "Yeah," you murmur, raising your eyebrows too.

"Give me one." You like the way she doesn't ask nicely.

Quirking an eyebrow, you purse your lips and whisper, "Say please."

You think she likes the way you don't obey her every command. "Can I _please _have a cigarette, Santana?" Her response is no doubt sarcastic, but something about the way she's batting her eyelashes condescendingly turns you on in a weird way.

You smile, because you just can't help it. "That's more like it."

Digging through your pocket, you hold out the pack of cigs just like you did for Sam and light her up. You watch carefully as she takes a long drag and releases three perfect smoke rings in a row.

(You want to marry her.)

"Mike," Puck yells, snapping everyone out of their thoughts, except for Sam who's still bobbing his head to some rock indie music that's so loud you can hear it coming from his earphones. Puck slaps Mike in the calf to get his attention. "According to the map, there's civilization about a half-mile down this road."

He points down the long strip, grey eyes glancing back and forth between Quinn and the map in his hands, as if he's just waiting for her to say something smart. Quinn smirks behind a cloud of smoke, hazel eyes bright in amusement.

She opens her mouth, eyes squinted menacingly, like she's about to add a comment, but then she shakes her head, deciding it might be best to leave some things to herself.

Puck waits another second, just in case, but when Quinn shrugs a shoulder and puffs out another line of smoke into his face, he rolls his eyes, looks to Mike, and says, "Sam's gonna stay here with the girls while we look for help." He glances in Sam's direction. "Sound good, Sammy?"

As you figured, Sam's not listening, continuing to smoke his cig and rock his head back and forth to the music, eyes closed as he basks in the scorching sun. His pale skin is starting to turn red, but you don't say anything.

(Hey, you never know, maybe he _wants _to look like a lobster.)

Puck sighs, ignoring the lack of response and grabs his backpack from out of the truck. Mike hops off the back and lands on the ground gracefully. A fog of dirt floats up from the ground, and you cough when some of the dust enters your lungs. Quinn waves the dirt away from her face as she climbs up the back of the truck and sits on the edge right next to you.

By the time Mike and Puck set off, walking off into the distance, Sam's completely dozed off, and Quinn looks so irritated, she could pop a blood vessel.

You try to think of ways to calm her down. You've been to enough anger management group counseling sessions to solve this kind of problem. Yet, the only thing that works for you is knitting, and you don't want Quinn to think you're lame for knitting booties and wristbands, so you try to think of something else.

Sam's not looking or paying any attention, and if his chest wasn't heaving up and down, you'd even assume he was dead, so you reach for the hem of your tank top and pull it over your head in one swift motion, prepared to blame it on the heat if Quinn questions your random actions.

You're wearing a black sports bra underneath, so it's not like you're revealing _everything_, but Quinn still smirks when she turns her head. Her eyes linger on your tanned skin, and when she licks her lips, you can't decide if you've stopped breathing, or just plain died.

"Um, guys," you hear, and dammit, Sam, really? He's looking back and forth between you, silently wondering if it's okay that he probably stared for a whole perverted minute before alerting you of his presence. "I figured there was _something _between you two..." he trails off teasingly, flicking some of the ash from his cig into the dirt below.

Quinn huffs, placing her cigarette back between her lips with a roll of her eyes. "What are you _implying_, Sam?" she asks him, arching a brow.

Sam raises his hands at her defensive tone. "Nothing, nothing, just..." he starts, but then stops, and you wait for him to continue, looking back and forth between Sam and Quinn as if you're watching a very competitive tennis match. "Never mind."

"No," Quinn says immediately, shaking her head. "I want you to finish your statement. What were you gonna say?"

Suddenly, you feel more naked than you did two minutes ago. "It's fine, Quinn," you murmur, feeling a little put out. "He was just joking."

"Just joking," Sam echoes, nodding along in agreement. You don't know why she seems so bothered by the comment. Quinn's been blatantly flirting with you ever since you first met, but when somebody points it out, she almost has an aneurysm?

It doesn't make sense, especially when she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes before cracking a smile. "Just joking," Quinn repeats, grabbing the Polaroid around her neck. She fiddles with the camera for a moment, then snaps a quick picture of you before you can even tug your shirt back on.

You're confused, there's no denying that, but it's a better emotion than vulnerability. Quinn's smiling again, and you love her smile, so you smile too. "Pervert," you remark, hoping it will make her grin even wider.

Quinn nudges you in the shoulder, and you almost fall off the side of the truck before catching your balance. Quinn takes a snapshot of this as well, along with a picture of Sam cracking up and almost choking on the cigarette between his lips.

* * *

You're not bold, but you like to make people think you are. Quinn's so confident and sure of herself, it makes you feel less bold in comparison, even when you're not pretending.

It doesn't make you feel weak, but something close to it. You used to like feeling needed, and once that sensation dwindled, so did you. That's where most of your mistakes and poor decisions stem from; that dull feeling of loneliness and seclusion.

Quinn doesn't make you feel that way. When she looks at you, it's like there's nothing in this world you can't do. And at the same time, she's so independent and free, you can't help but admire her.

You're nothing alike, as far as you can tell, but there's something. Dammit, there's this something in her eyes, this pain; you can feel it every time you make eye contact with her.

(And it breaks your heart.)

You wonder about heartbreak. The average heart beats about 72 beats per minute, and it weighs approximately 250 grams. When you're scared or excited or annoyed or aroused, your heart rate increases, but when you're calm or composed or bored or heartbroken, your heart barely beats at all. Sometimes it feels as if you can't go on. Whatever you feel, you're feeling it in your heart.

That's how you know you either love Noah Puckerman, or you hate his freaking guts, but you're pretty certain it's the latter. Your heart jerks in your chest whenever you see him, and you know what that feeling is.

It's jealousy, it's anger, it's remorse, it's hate. You don't even know him, yet you hate him. You don't think that's normal, but at the moment you could very much care less.

It turns out, you don't die out in the middle of nowhere. There was a gas station less than a quarter mile down. Puck and Mike were back before you could even sneeze from all the dust floating in the air.

You're on your way again, down the deserted road for about an hour until you enter another town, or city, as it seems to be, considering the tall buildings, long roads, massive traffic. The sign reads _Ciudad de las Luces_. You've never heard of it, like most things in Mexico, like most things about your roots.

Back home in America, the city of lights is New York, New York, or Las Vegas, Nevada, or Los Angeles, California. There are so many different "City of Lights" around the world, and somehow, it doesn't make you feel as lonely as usual. Somehow, it makes you feel closer to home.

You can't see the lights now, of course, since it's daytime. A small part of you is hoping you stay out past your curfew, no matter what your grandma says, just so you can see these grand lights Quinn speak so highly of.

As she stares out the window, wonder in her eyes, she tells you about the tall skyscrapers, how they glow in the darkness of night; the streetlights, how they shine down on the sidewalks; the stores and shops, how they never close, staying open at all hours of the night, just to accommodate their customers.

This beautiful city, only about two hours outside Santo Amor, is like a whole other world in comparison. Life in Santo Amor is hard and cheap and poor, and yet, none of the beauty of that town dims because of it. Maybe it's the prideful, hard working people that make Santo Amor so mesmerizing in the first place.

Quinn must've been here before. Everything she described on the way here is an exact replica of the magnificent fountain you're staring at now. People from all walks of life are enjoying the splendor of the nice, cool water on this simmering, summer day.

Kids run around, laughing and smiling and splashing their friends in the fountains while parents shout at their children to play safe and stay within their watchful view.

Mike is the first one to hop out of the truck. Your eyes follow after him until he disappears within the crowd somewhere. Just as you're pulling your door open, Sam's jumping out of the back of the truck, yelling at Mike to wait for him.

Quinn laughs at the two of them, shaking her head in amusement as she grabs your hand and forces you out the vehicle with her. You follow without hesitation, smiling wide at everyone's excitement, and not even the glare Puck shoots you from the rearview mirror can erase the grin on your face.

You can feel his glare burning a hole through the side of your face. But you're not going to stoop down to his level and stare him down. Quinn isn't a piece of meat the two of you are fighting over. He's not her boyfriend, so ultimately, you have nothing to worry about. He's no threat to you, just an annoying itch on a part of your body you can't quite reach.

If it's scientifically possible, it seems as if the temperature has risen even more since you left your abuelita's house. As soon as you're out of Puck's air-conditioned pickup, every fiber of your skin tingles under the hot rays of the sun. Your skin feels dry and prickly, your eyes water under the bright sunlight, and all of a sudden, you're extremely thirsty.

Quinn's a dream in her denim cutoff shorts, plain white tee, and brown cowboy boots, and you drink it up. It's the most casual you've ever seen her, minus the _VOLUNTEER _t-shirt, and you think it fits her best. Quinn is the most free-spirited, laid-back individual you know, other than your brother, and it really is a big breath of fresh air.

You didn't bring a bathing suit, and it seems Quinn didn't either, because instead of stripping down in front of you, Quinn finds an empty area of the fountain, kicks off her boots near the edge, and carefully steps over the ledge and into the water.

Her smile gets even broader, and you arch an eyebrow, wondering where this water comes from, how they make it so damn cold, and if they can give you the secret in order to make Quinn smile this blindingly for the rest of her life.

"Come on in," she says, kicking her feet around joyfully, splashing water all around. "The water's great!" She's yelling now, her face raised toward the sun. You look up too, just to see what's so interesting about the sky in this city. All you can see is the hot sun smiling down, the tall buildings hovering over you.

If Quinn says the water is great, you're going to take her for her word. You've come to discover Quinn is right about a lot of things. She's fairly wise for her age, experienced and cultured from the many countries she's visited, so how could you not take her very sound advice and not_come on in?_

Kicking off your converses right next to Quinn's cowboy boots, you carefully step over the ledge and into the water. It's not too hot, not too cold. You curl your toes and sigh. This fountain must be magic, a special healing source of some sort. As soon as both feet are immersed in the crystal clear water, everything becomes luminous; the sky is brighter, the smells are stronger, the sounds are finer.

It could be the water, or it could be you. Who knows? Either way, you rather pretend it is the water, because there's no way you'd be able to come up with these realizations all on your own.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when a handful of water is splashed at your face. The sensation of the cool water is refreshing, and you laugh at the wonder of it all as you bend down to grab some water of your own.

"Think you're funny, don't you?" you snicker, closing in on Quinn, an evil little smile on your face. "Well, I'm funnier." Quinn squeals when you throw the water, her lips spread into a smile longer than the Nile River.

You're a tsunami, a raging storm who doesn't know how strong she really is, and Quinn is the small, beautiful island, precious and innocent, yet dangerous and ready to fight back with all she has.

(And fight, she does.)

You find a balance, somehow. The island isn't as innocent as the tsunami originally thought. She's cynically smart and stubborn and bold, and she's not pretending. This is who she really is, and she doesn't care if you know it.

You wonder; why doesn't she hide? How can she trust you with all of this intimate knowledge? Why does the little island let in the boastful tsunami, knowing it will only hurt her in the long run?

You're soaking wet, clothes sopped in water, as you climb out of the fountain, Quinn following closely behind. She's dripping wet, hair stuck to the sides of her face, eyelashes sparkling under the sunlight.

(Islands are always so beautiful the morning after the storm.)

Somewhere in your hollow muscular organ, you want to kiss the island. Feel the breeze on your face, smell the tropical fruits, swim in the salt water of the ocean, taste the fish that live in the streams, jump down the waterfalls, going down, down, down, until you've gone so deep, there's nowhere left to travel.

An island is stagnant and strong, not even a vicious hurricane can move them or change them. They don't fight; they only embrace the negative and hope to come out stronger in the end. Hope. Strength. And you realize, quite vividly, you're not the storm at all. Neither is Quinn.

The storm is life.

Sometimes, when you come to a realization, it's shocking and startling and maybe even a little bit haunting. You may furrow your brow, take a suspicious look around, wondering if anyone is aware of the new information you have just discovered. A chill may flow through your bones, a shiver up your spine.

If you're not the storm, maybe you're not as destructive as you once thought. The scary part of life is life itself, and if you can learn to embrace it, just like the little island, maybe you will come out stronger as well; all you need is a little bit of hope.

Quinn keeps the hope alive, but when you must leave the city before dark, the hope dwindles a little bit. You were hoping to stay longer, but you don't let Quinn know how much this saddens you, because this has been such a nice day and you don't want to ruin it with your needless desires. Quinn and the guys have volunteer work in the morning, so of course you understand.

(Of course.)

Your grandma is awake when you get home, but you don't get into trouble like you expected. Her bedroom door is closed, a light shining through the cracks in the doorframe. You lift your fist to the wood, so close to knocking, so close, but then you stop when you hear a sound. It's muffled and low, and only because it sounds so familiar, you decide it's a song.

_A veces los sentimientos_

_no se pueden manejar_

_y cuando nos atrapan_

_no podemos escapar_

_y es asi, nuestro corazon sufre_

_Y sigue y sigue_

_dando vueltas y vueltas_

_la loca rueda de la vida_

_y sigue rodando en mi cabeza_

_el enigma cautivante de tu voz_

_Y donde quedo ahora_

_esa hermosa ilusion_

_de regalarte a vos_

_lo mejor de mi amor_

_lo mejor de mi amor_

_lo mejor de mi amor_

_de mi amor_

Just like hope, the wistful sound of your grandmother's voice is quite haunting. You didn't know she could sing, but then again, there's a lot you don't know about everything.


	7. isla sin amor

The dirt is different here than in the States. It's redder and smoother. As you run your fingers through the dirt, its slickness reminds you of clay. It sticks to your hands like glue, but it doesn't crumple like the dirt back home.

Dirt isn't the only thing that's different about Mexico though.

A lot of things are different; the people, the sites, the language, the water, the food, the sun, the sky, the stars, the atmosphere.

Quinn seems to notice as well, because she can never stop talking about it; how the ocean is so clear, you could probably see straight through it; how the people are much friendlier here; how the food tastes so much better; how the wind feels different on her bare skin; how the sun shines so much brighter.

Quinn's an anomaly. You haven't yet gotten a grasp on her. She's hard to figure out, and you suppose that's what you like about her. She's not easy to read, easy to have, easy to get. She's so simple, yet complicated.

You'd love to be the one to get a chance to navigate her complex thoughts, travel through her brain and learn all about her; her quirks, her deepest, darkest secrets, her favorite color, her best memory, her first kiss, her greatest treasure.

You want everything Quinn has to offer.

(Is that greedy?)

Quinn loves her Polaroid camera like a sex-addict loves orgasms. Every time you look around, Quinn's snapping a picture of something; a beautiful setting, a colorful bird perched on top of a palm tree, a kid licking his ice cream, or...just a candid of you.

Whenever she focuses her lenses on you, you always try to play it off like you're not paying attention, but you notice. Of course you notice; it's hard not to notice, sometimes. And it's hard to suppress your smile whenever you catch her in the act, but you try, and more than not, your mouth ends up hurting by the end of the day from holding back a bashful grin.

Sometimes the two of you sit in front of a historical site and wonder. You think about the people who were alive back then; the Indigenous people of Mexico, what struggles they faced, how they overcame their hardships. You wonder if they had troubles like you; faced the same issues you've stumbled upon throughout the years.

Your history teacher, Miss Paxton, once said during class that, "_The future always repeats itself. There's nothing new under the sun."_ As you look at the crumbled monuments and deserted, abandoned buildings that hold so many stories, you wonder how true all of that really is.

You spend the next few days together; just Quinn and yourself. No Sam and his thoughtful, green eyes. No Mike and his sugar-loaded body. No Puck and his wolf-like scowl. Just yourself and Quinn, and it makes you nervous in a way as you follow her through the streets and take in the sites surrounding you. Whenever alone, you would always stick to the main pathway, but Quinn takes you to places all over town you never even knew existed.

As you walk side by side, hands brushing every now and then, Quinn tells you things she never told anyone; stories about her life back home, why she chose Mexico of all places this summer, what fields of study she's taking at UCLA, how her dog thinks he's a human being.

You can't help but listen as she speaks. Whenever she talks about something she's truly passionate about, her eyes light up, brighter than the sun burning above you. She's been to Haiti, Ghana, Chile; multiple places all around the world, teaching children English, handing out food packets to those in need, rebuilding old and abandoned structures.

She loves to travel, and she loves to help people. "This way, I can kill two birds with one stone," she concludes, the corner of her lips twitching up into a smile. She's admirable, and true, and everything about her is beautiful, and you're mad at yourself for falling even deeper.

The way she wants to save the world one country at a time, how she can fluently speak three languages, the astounding stories of her travels and all the people she's met and helped; it just blows you away and leaves you wanting more, more, more.

"Can I ask you a question?"

You're not usually so hesitant around people, choosing to ask whatever you want, whenever you want, but with Quinn, it's different.

Quinn glances at you from out the corner of her eye as she tries on a pair of sunglasses. "You just did," she replies evenly, pursing her lips in the mirror across from her. When you send her a pointed look, Quinn sighs, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, and pulls off the pair of shades. "Sure, S, ask as many questions as you want. Fire away."

You glance down at the Polaroid hanging from her neck. It always seems to be there, resting right on her chest. Quinn's wearing a lavender tank top today, so you can easily see the protrusion of her breasts whenever you look down.

"Why a Polaroid?" you wonder aloud, lifting your head. When you catch Quinn's eye, she gives you a look, and you're pretty sure she just caught you ogling her breasts, but it hasn't been the first time, so you simply shrug it off and wait for her response.

Quinn doesn't answer; instead, she raises an eyebrow, confusion written all over her face as she grabs a floppy sunhat from off a rack and tosses it on top of her head. "What do you mean?" she asks you, head tilted to the side as she inspects her reflection.

Quinn must not like what she sees, because the next thing you know, the sunhat is back on the rack, and you're standing alone, watching as she heads down another aisle in the tiny shop.

"I _mean,_ you're a photography major_,_" you begin, hot on her trail as she slips through a small space between shelves and strolls down another aisle. "Shouldn't you have some fancy digital camera and complicated equipment or something? Like a Nikon?"

Quinn cracks a smile as she comes to a stop in front of a rack of colorful clothing. "I've been kinda into vintage lately," she says simply, shrugging her shoulders, but you know it's more than that, so you boldly tug the red poncho she's feeling up right out of her hands, claiming her undivided attention.

Quinn smirks and rolls her eyes at your display of assertiveness. You have a standoff, both holding the poncho in a tight grasp. After about five seconds of utter silence between the two of you, Quinn loosens her grasp and ends up dropping the piece of cloth in your hand. You smile victoriously. Again, Quinn rolls her eyes, but you're pretty sure she finds you adorable, so it's okay.

She hums under her breath, turning her head to look at something, anything but you. "There's nothing like catching that perfect moment," Quinn whispers, and you notice immediately how wistful she sounds, how melancholy, longing, and yearning she sounds.

You hadn't meant to make this moment feel so intimate, so significant, because it really shouldn't. You were just curious and wanted to know why she loved that Polaroid camera so much, but the way she held off from answering your question, like she had some sort of secret, had only spiked your curiosity even more.

Cocking her head to the side, her chin at the perfect angle where you can easily admire her defined jawline without looking like a creep, Quinn licks her lips and says, "Polaroid photographs can't be deleted, altered, stored, or edited. These photos can't be posted on the Internet or saved to some stranger's computer," she explains, biting her upper lip, and God, you can't stop looking at her lips now. "The only people who can see these pictures are those of my choosing."

Quinn picks up her camera and looks through the lenses, right at you. You don't move a muscle, just stare straight ahead, a small smirk playing at your lips.

"The sunlight through Polaroid lenses are better than any artificial light or editing can mimic or manipulate," she whispers, and a shiver crawls up your spine at the breathy tone to her voice.

She tilts her camera at an angle, and your eyes follow her every move as she crouches below you on the floor and kneels on one knee.

"It's all up to the photographer's skill and vision that decides what's going to be forever captured." You quirk an eyebrow when she stays low and takes a few steps back, continuing to tilt and angle the camera until the vision she plans to capture is perfect.

You know she's got it when that goofy smile reappears on her cheeks as she singsongs, "Smile," and snaps the photo.

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_I feel guilty. I suppose I was with Skye for so long that it now feels wrong to gain feelings for another girl. I don't mean to sound like a hypocrite or anything. I know that most of what happened is my fault. Maybe if I was honest with her, things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn't even be in Mexico in the first place. Maybe I never would have met Mowgli. Maybe I would have never met Quinn._

_It's hard to make a choice sometimes. I know I don't really have one anymore, but at times I find myself wondering which direction I would take if I could see the future. Who would I pick, where would I go, what would I do?_

_Just one decision could change everything._

_I think I would pick Skye. She wasn't just my girlfriend, after all. She was my best friend, and when we broke up, I couldn't even remember what it was like to be without her. Truthfully, it's the best friend things I miss the most._

_Skye was my free therapist before I needed a real one. She was the one who reminded me to stop being a bitch, the one I did my homework with, the one I'd blame my farts on, the one I'd lose track of time with, the one who's mind I could read with just one look._

_Sometimes, I miss my ex-girlfriend. But I never stop missing my ex-best friend._

* * *

Whenever Quinn has a day off, or her shift is done for the day, she knocks on your door with this smile, and you just want to;

a) kiss her  
b) tell her how you feel  
c) admit that you think about her all the time  
d) confess that you're falling for her  
e) proclaim that every time you see her, you forget who you are

You want to tell her everything and just spill out your guts. You want to tell her about yourself, about your family, about your soccer team, about your brother.

(And you _never _tell anyone about your brother.)

But you don't know if she feels the same way, so you keep your thoughts to yourself, grab your bag out of your room, kiss Abuelita goodbye, and head out the door for another unpredictable adventure with Quinn.

Sometimes you find yourself on the top of Quinn's motel roof and watch silently as the sun goes down. Quinn always pulls a small photo album out of her messenger bag and shows you pictures of what she's seen so far.

You laugh at the one's Mike took of her up close, her face practically smushed against the camera lens. You try not to roll your eyes at the photographs of Puck, a smug grin plastered on his face like always. You smile at the soft look in Sam's eyes as he tries to shyly dodge out of the camera's view.

You're happy Quinn is your friend, but somewhere deep in your mind you were maybe hoping for something more, something deeper, something concrete.

Quinn hasn't done anything to really give you a sign that she wants something more, that she wants you as more than a friend. Sure, she's a flirtatious little firecracker, but that doesn't exactly mean she's into _that._

You really want to find out, but you have to be subtle about it, so one afternoon, as you're both sitting on the roof of her motel, you turn your head and ask, "Are you a virgin?"

Quinn's chokes on air.

Okay, maybe you could have been a little less blunt, but now that it's out there, you need to know the answer. Quinn has this look on her face; the one where she squints her eyes, curls her top lip, and scrunches up her nose.

For a few moments, you just stare at each other. You suppose it would be awkward if you didn't like staring at her so much. She raises her eyebrows, asking a silent question, but you're not sure what it is, so you raise your eyebrows too.

"No," Quinn finally answers, a small smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Good, she's amused. Maybe she'll just let it go as a random curiosity of yours. "Why?"

(Okay, plan B.)

Tilting your head, you tap your fingers against the shingles on the rooftop. "Just wondering..."

"Have you been _wondering _this for awhile?" Quinn inquires, that blasted grin still stretched across her cheeks.

You tuck your knees into your chest and release a shaky laugh, slowly lolling your head to the side in thought. "_Maybe_..." you drawl slyly, glancing her way before looking forward again.

"Well," Quinn begins, then stops, scratches the back of her neck, and chuckles to herself like she can't believe she's about to ask, "What else have you been _wondering_?"

It sounds like she's giving you some type of permission to ask her whatever you want. You're not exactly sure, so you face her, lift your eyebrows, and wait. When Quinn smiles, lifts her eyebrows back, and nods slightly, you wonder if there really is a God.

"Location," you state, and when a crease forms in between Quinn's eyebrows, you smirk and add, "Location of your first time."

"Ah," Quinn murmurs, seemingly amused with your choice. "UCLA dorm room."

You wait for more, but when she just looks away, gazing beautifully at the traffic on the street, you brazenly ask, "You didn't have sex until you were in college?"

You don't really see a problem asking these questions; after all, friends ask each other personal questions about love and sex and life all the time, right? It seems Quinn thinks so too, because she laughs and says, "Why do you sound so surprised?"

You hadn't realized your eyes were wide and wondering, or that your question had come out with a breathy gasp. You look away quickly and clear your throat with heavy shrug. "No reason," you squeak, and then clear your throat again, because dear God, you did _not _just squeak.

"What about you?" Quinn crosses her legs in front of her before looking your way with that expectant look of hers.

Still lost in a daze, you mumble, "What about me?"

"Virgin?"

She says it so easily, like it doesn't even bother her, like she's truly not that interested, like the fate of the world doesn't depend on your response. Despite your rapidly beating heart, you cough into your fist and murmur, "No, um..." Quinn raises an eyebrow when you fail to continue your thoughts. Rubbing the back of your neck anxiously, you decide to be honest and admit that, "I lost my virginity awhile back. To someone really special."

You can't help it; you think of Skye and that night and the way she felt under you. You think of her gasping breaths and your panting sighs and her half-lidded eyes and your grunted moans all mixing together as one into the night.

"How old?" Quinn asks, squinting her eyes curiously. You like how wondering she is; maybe it's not just you who insists on learning more about the girl you're spending your summer with. The thought is comforting. You don't want her to be wasting her time with someone she really doesn't care for, even if that someone is you.

You think about it for a moment; you'd even count on your fingers if it didn't make you look like a toddler. "I was...fifteen."

"Wow," Quinn murmurs, incredulous. "That's really young."

(_Not when you're in love_, you think to yourself.)

You shrug, unsure of how to reply, leaving a giant hole in the conversation. Quinn bobs her head up and down to the sounds of absolute silence. Maybe she has a song stuck in her head. You wish the silence didn't bother you so much, then maybe you'd be able to just sit and think and breathe.

You have a problem. It's been following you around ever since you were a kid. As people on this earth, it is only human nature to tell the truth, to speak what's on your mind, to release whatever's in your heart.

Only in life do we learn to keep these feelings and truths and internal pains to ourselves, thus entrapping a bubbling desire to claw out and escape the plastic wrap hindering us from living our lives.

As a human being, it is only natural for us to say what's on our mind, so you can't really blame anyone but humanity and God for the next six words that bubble up your throat and exit your lips.

"Ever had sex with a girl?"

Quinn doesn't even flinch. Strangely, she looks the exact opposite of startled, as if she's been awaiting this question her whole life. Tapping her chin in contemplation, she narrows her eyes and tilts her head in thought. "Considered it," she says, smiling wickedly to herself, and you wish you could see what is happening in her imagination. "But no. Never had sex with a girl."

You're not sure if your heart just sank or got stuck in your throat. "Why not?" you wonder, unable to let this conversation drop until you have fully analyzed the words she's spoken.

Quinn shrugs, her shoulders lifting and falling slowly, as she actually considers your probing questions. "Opportunity wasn't there, situation wasn't right," is all she says, and it's better than hearing her say _that's just gross, like, ew_, because you've heard that before and it wasn't very pretty when your brother stepped in.

Quinn smirks, and you swear she can read your mind. "Anything else you want to know?"

You're not going to let this opportunity go to waste, no matter how gay the questions make you seem. "Ever _kiss _a girl?"

You're met with complete silence other than the honking horns on the street below. "Maybe," breaks through the distant noise, and you smile crookedly at Quinn's faux innocent expression.

"What do you mean, _maybe_?" you inquire.

"If you have to ask, then you'll never know."

Chuckling, because it's a wonder where she gets this stuff, you roll your eyes and sigh, "Alright, Gandhi..."

Quinn leans back on the roof and folds her arms under her head. You doubt those shingles feel very comfortable under her back, but she's sure making it look relaxing by the content expression on her face. "My turn to ask _you_ a question now," she says, as if this is a game you've been playing all along. You smile and nod, silently telling her to ask _anything _she wants to know, anything except, "Are you a lesbian?"

Only one other person has asked you this question before, and it was Skye. Believe it or not, the two of you started out as friends. You met her in the fifth grade, became best friends in the sixth, fell in love with her in the eighth, and everything fell apart in the eleventh.

The inevitable end; it happened fast, like the snap of a stretched rubber band. The band was on its way to breaking for months before it snapped against your skin, burning your wrist, causing a welt the size of your broken heart to form right there as a permanent reminder of your self-destruction.

Quinn is still waiting, and more than anything, you hate making people wait. It was so easy to admit it to Mowgli and Jose, but this is Quinn, and you don't know how Quinn thinks or what Quinn wants or what Quinn believes.

Obviously she's sensed something, or else this question would have been a stupid question, but it's not a stupid question because it's true, so.

"Yeah," you say, as clearly and as calmly as possible, shrugging a shoulder, though it feels tense as it bounces off your body. "Yeah, I'm gay."

You're trying to play it off like it doesn't matter what she thinks; that it doesn't bother you, though sometimes you do get scared, and you do wish things were different, and you do flinch at the slightest homophobic joke.

Quinn doesn't make a joke though. She doesn't do anything actually, just smiles, and that's it; one measly smile then, poof, it's gone and she murmurs, "Thought so," before looking back up at the sky.

You like how she doesn't make a big deal out of it like some people tend to, but you were secretly kind of hoping a confession of her own would follow once she fully discovered you have a thing for the ladies.

"What made you think so?" you ask, nervously wringing your fingers together. Now could be your last chance to discover what she really likes without having to blurt out the words, _Do you like, like me?_ You're not a first grader. You know how to handle your shit without losing your cool. All you have to do is take a deep breath and count to ten as you release a bundle of carbon dioxide.

Quinn squints up at the sun. She's not wearing her sunglasses today, which is a first, so her eyes are even more sparkly than usual. "I'm just..." she begins, and when she pauses, you hold your breath. "I'm just very perceptive, I guess."

(Very perceptive, my ass.)

She bows her head and smirks into her chest, and all you can do is watch and silently demand your heart to stop beating so hard against your ribcage before it breaks a bone. "_And_," she continues, nibbling on her upper lip with his coy smile. "I saw you checking me out once...or five times."

You gape like a fish out of water that desperately needs air. "I was _not _checking you out," you deny stubbornly, trying your hardest not to grin like a goof, because you always smile when you're embarrassed, and you think Quinn is beginning to catch on.

Quinn looks at you like she doesn't believe the bull you're spewing, which she doesn't, and that's probably why she's giving you that look. "San..." she drawls, because she wants you to tell her the truth, and your heart cracks a little down the center at her adorable pout.

You sigh, rolling your eyes at your poor resolve. "Okay, maybe a little," you admit.

Quinn still looks reluctant. "Mm..." she hums, quirking a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Or a lot," you blurt, getting it all out there before you forever lose your confidence. "You're very...attractive, okay? Happy?"

You don't think you should find her smugness so sexy. "Very much so," she singsongs, and you can't believe you just admitted to her that you're a lesbian who finds her hot without upchucking your lunch. "What kind of women wouldn't be happy to be called attractive?"

She teasing you, Santana, and if this was anyone but Quinn, you'd probably punch them in the throat, but this _is _Quinn, and although she's teasing you, in the back of your mind, you're hoping it's one of those underlying elementary school crushes that produce teasing instead of feelings, because feelings mean cooties, and cooties mean staying young forever.

(And who doesn't want to stay young forever?)

Quinn is sitting up again, her right leg tucked comfortably under her bottom as her left foot rests dangerously close to the edge of the roof, dangling right near the rusty gutter.

"So, what about you?" you find yourself asking after a significantly long silence.

Quinn licks her lips and looks your way, confusion in her eyes. "What about me?"

You have a feeling she knows what you're talking about, because she's got that _look _on her face. Wringing your hands together, you look at her, like, _really _look at her and-

"Quinn!"

And you sigh, because _of_ _course _this would happen to you right when you're about to learn Quinn's sexual orientation. It's Sam, of-fucking-course, because it's always Sam who interrupts the two of you when something monumental is about to occur.

He's staring up at you both, eyes glancing back and forth with a crease between his brows, as if he has a feeling he just interrupted something_again_.

"What, Sam?" Quinn calls down to him, eyebrows raised impatiently, and maybe, just maybe she was enjoying this horrifyingly awkward conversation about sex and life between the two of you.

Sam scratches the side of his head, lost for words, and you just want to lean forward and spit on his bleached blonde hair. Before you can, though, he gazes up, squinting his eyes at the bright sun, and yells, "I misplaced my book and just wanted to know if you've seen it."

(A book. He interrupted your heavily angst discussion for a dumb book.)

"Misplaced, or _lost_?" Quinn asks, pulling her knees into her chest.

You smile, but Sam doesn't. "I didn't lose it," he says, folding his arms over his chest. "It has to be around here somewhere."

"What book was it?"

"_Looking For Alaska."_

Quinn chuckles, but you don't know why, until she says, "You're _looking _for a book called _Looking For Alaska_, which you _lost_?"

Sam doesn't seem to understand the humor in all of this, rolling his green eyes under the hand shielding his vision from the burning sun. "Yes, Quinn. You hit the nail on the head with that one."

Ignoring his sarcasm, Quinn shakes her head with an airy laugh and yells, "Why don't you check Alaska?"

"Because I haven't been to Alaska recently, so I doubt it will be _there_, Quinn," Sam mutters, throwing his hands up in exasperation, and when you laugh, Sam sends you a death glare, so you figure he must really like this book.

You suppose Quinn senses this too, because she carefully stands up, and you following her as she climbs down the fire escape to meet Sam's scowl head on.

Sam's hand is out, palm open, his foot tapping on the pavement impatiently, and Quinn says nothing as she places her key in his hand. You follow them to Quinn's motel room, because you've never seen it before. Quinn must be notorious for stealing novels, because Sam seems pretty intent on discovering his book somewhere in her room, and all Quinn does is roll her eyes and groan behind him as Sam unlocks her door and barrels in.

Her motel room has no air condition, like, at all. Just from peeking into the muggy room, you can feel the temperature rise by a tremendous amount. It's uncanny how anyone could live or sleep in an environment considerably hotter than hell, but if anyone can do it, you know it's Quinn.

(At this point, you're pretty certain Quinn can do anything.)

You're standing outside her motel room, waiting for them to come back _without _a novel, because you don't believe Quinn could even steal a blank piece of paper if she wanted to, when you run into Puck, or Puck runs into you, literally. You hear quick footsteps running from around the corner, and then, boom, a hard body crashes into you.

Strong hands reach out and grab your waist. When you realize it's Puck, and when Puck realizes it's you, he immediately lets go as you try not to grimace at the thought of his grimy hands on your body.

He doesn't give you a mean glare and silently stalk away like you thought (and secretly hoped) he would. Instead, he squares his shoulders, looks down on you, and says, "Still pining after Quinn I see."

You don't think you've even spoken to him one on one before this moment. He stinks, like usual, sweat drenching his entire _VOLUNTEER _shirt, and you wonder if this dude packed enough deodorant for the whole summer, or maybe he's just allergic to the stuff.

There's dirt slashed across his face, grime under his fingernails, and this weird yellow crust right in the middle of his forehead, and you can't help but wonder what the hell this volunteer program puts him through everyday, and if it's legal.

You used to see Puck as your competition, but now you realize that's dumb, because Puck is stupid, and you should never in your entire life feel it necessary to waste your time competing against someone with less brain cells than a baseball bat.

"You find me threatening," you note, nodding to yourself, because it all makes sense. Yes, you, Santana Lopez, have found the meaning to life. "You like Quinn, and you're afraid she likes me back, so you find me threatening."

There's no smugness or bite to your tone, just confidence, which you have been fairly lacking as of lately. It feels good to be confident. Jose used to tell you confidence is just a state of mind; if you believe it, you can make anyone believe it.

Jose's random blabbering seems to have some truth behind it after all, because Puck recoils for a moment, and you see the dimness in his bright eyes for just a split second before he stands up straight again and scoffs, "Look, it's plain to see. You've got a thing for Quinn, but she's not like_you_."

You will yourself not to flinch at his icy words. Ice can do nothing but put out the fire, but that fire burnt out a long time ago, therefore, you have nothing to lose in this situation, as far as you can tell.

Nevertheless, you remember that discussion about fruits you had with Quinn in the beginning of the summer; about honeydew melon and bananas; about which one Quinn preferred over the other. You remember how she failed to answer your question properly, choosing pineapples when that wasn't even a choice in the first place.

You open your mouth to protest, but Puck waves you off with a roll of his eyes and continues with, "Don't try to deny it. You're so damn obvious, and let me tell you this before you get your little heart broken," he sneers, sizing you up, and you arch an eyebrow, because seriously? Is he_seriously _about to threaten a seventeen year old girl who's at least seven inches shorter than him to stay away from his woman? "She's not into_that_. Quinn may like to flirt and touch, but she's as straight as they come."

You want to hit him. You want to curl your hand into a fist, grab that sad excuse for a mohawk and crack his skull against a brick wall. You want to knee him in the balls over and over again until his face turns purple and blue. You want to shove a whole slew of vicious words and cusses down his throat, and right when you start to question if these desires of yours are healthy, Quinn exits her motel room, Sam trailing not too far behind.

It's quiet for about five seconds as you stared him down, your dark eyes never wavering. You can sense Quinn and Sam beside you, looking back and forth, back and forth, unable to determine what exactly is conspiring right in front of their faces.

Puck has lifted his chin defiantly, staring down at you, and you would probably laugh at his attempt to scare you off if it wasn't for the hand placed on your shoulder. The anger and hate and unbeguiled loathing you have for Puck slowly unravels like a ball of yarn. You release a heavy sigh, but you don't count to ten, because you're so dizzy, you doubt you'd be able to count if you tried.

When you finally break out of your staring contest with Puck, Quinn gives you this look that says, _What's going on?_

You don't answer her, just brush pass Puck and wait until you hear Quinn's quick footsteps chasing after you.


	8. Muerte

**Chapter 8: Muerte**

Once, years and years ago, you asked your brother what he wanted to be when he grew up; all he said was, "I wanna be brave."

You didn't get it at the time, but now it makes all the sense in the world, and suddenly you come to the realization that courage is all you want in life too. Forget the fancy cars and limousines and loads of money. Bravery, courage, strength, hope, love; all of this seems way more important than something money can buy.

Sure, you want to be a famous athlete one day, but you'll use your riches for something important, like Quinn. More than anything, you want to make her proud. You barely know this girl. You barely know anything about her life, other than what she's told you, but all you want is to see her smile forever and ever and ever...

You always seem to do your best thinking at night. Ever since you've stopped dreaming in the beginning of this summer, sleep hasn't seemed truly necessary. To dream should be a privilege, not a right.

All you want is the ability to close your eyes, drift off into a peaceful state of mind, and leave all your troubles behind. If you could do that; forget all your worries and pretend the dream world is all yours, you would be invincible.

If you had the power to control your dreams, maybe you'd never even wake up. What would be the point? Why face this destructive, scary, outside world if there is a perfectly safe environment right inside your head?

Jose used to tell you about his dreams when you were younger. You'd sneak into his room at night, unable to fall asleep because of certain nightmares about car accidents and ghosts.

Jose would stay up with you, hold you in his arms, and tell you about his never-ending dreams about freedom. "I dreamt that I was flying, Santana," he'd whisper, tucking you under his arm protectively. "I dreamt we were both flying, and that no one could touch us because we were so high."

"Did we ever come down, Jose?" you remember asking, because back then, you were deathly afraid of birds and airplanes and anything too unimaginable, really.

Jose had just laughed, as if he couldn't understand why anyone would ever want to come back down to earth, to such a scary place full of evil and monsters. "_You _can come down, San," he said, staring up wonderingly at the ceiling. "But I think I'm gonna fly around a little bit longer before coming back down to earth. Just a little bit longer."

You used to repeat this mantra to yourself over and over again after Jose left. You remember kneeling beside your bed and propping your elbows on your comforter, repeating the words, "Just a little bit longer."

You had promised yourself to hold out a little bit longer. You had promised to wait for him to come home, because Jose said he would come back down to earth one day, and you believed him.

(Now? You don't know what to believe.)

Clutching the edge of your lumpy mattress, you close your eyes, stuff your face into your pillow, and scream. It comes out as a muffled, high-pitched whimper, but over the pathetic sounds of your voice, you hear a sound. This time, it is not your abuelita's late night television shows. You hold your breath and lay still, waiting to see if you hear the sound again.

There it is; that weak howl.

You usually hear this noise all the time, but never so close to your window. Throwing off your sheets, you slide out of bed and tiptoe over the creaks in the floorboards.

Scratching sounds rake against your windowsill, and when you pull back the curtains, you almost shriek in surprise. Clamping your lips shut, you roll your eyes at Mr. Ramos' hound dog as he licks at the glass of the window and rubs his wet nose against the screen.

Shutting the curtains, you hurriedly tug on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before creeping out your room and out of the house without as much as a peep. Mr. Ramos' dog is still sitting in the grass beside your window when you round the house, waiting, his big droopy eyes staring blankly up at you.

The dog rolls out his long, wet tongue and pants as if he just ran two miles, and you grimace at the drool pooling out the corner of his mouth. Unsure of what to do, you clap your hands quietly and make kissy noises at him, hoping it will work to make him follow you, but the hound dog just sits there and stares, as if he's trying to hypnotize you.

"C'mon, you dumb dog," you mutter, snapping your fingers impatiently, and _voila_, the dog actually stands up and walks towards you.

You smile victoriously and lead him across the street towards Mr. Ramos' house. He's slow and sloth-like, and it takes about three whole minutes to cross the street and coax the old dog up the porch.

It's about midnight, and you can hear the sound of a television coming through the front door. Raising your fist to the wood, you knock, and then wait patiently for him to open the door.

No one opens the door.

You stand outside in the dark for about two minutes with a boring dog before you bang on Mr. Ramos' door again, a bit louder this time just in case the old man is going deaf or something.

You're just about to call it a night and leave the dog on his porch when the front door cracks open and Mr. Ramos peeks his head out suspiciously. He looks you up and down, a dreary look in his bloodshot eyes, and you come to the conclusion that he was either in a very deep sleep, or drinking a whole lot of booze this evening.

A broad smile stretches across his face when he sees his hound dog laying comfortably on the wooden porch. "Mi perro," he singsongs joyfully, opening the front door a little wider, and you watch closely as the hound dog stands up and walks very slowly into the house. "Trajiste mi perro de nuevo. Espera aquí y te recompensaré por su buena acción."

He disappears from the door, and you just stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, because you didn't understand a word he just spoke; your Spanish comprehension is still a little rough around the edges.

Mr. Ramos left his door wide open, so you crane your neck and peek inside. For someone who lives in such a poor neighborhood, the old man sure has a nice place. You yawn, tired from another adventurous day with Quinn, and you're just about ready to climb down the porch and head home when old Mr. Ramos reappears out of nowhere, right in front of the doorway, startling the fuck out of you.

You jump slightly and take a step back when Mr. Ramos takes a step forward and closes the front door behind him. He's cradling a lit cigar in between his index and middle finger, and you wonder if Mike is the only person in this whole town who doesn't smoke.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, shivering a bit when a cool breeze drifts by and shakes the trees in the distance. Mr. Ramos flicks a switch on the wall, illuminating the whole porch, and you squint your eyes, because your dark pupils aren't used to bright lights this late at night, or morning depending on how you look at it.

Mr. Ramos holds a thick book under his arm. "Siéntate, cariño, y deja que te cuente una historia," he says with a smile as he sits on a crooked bench and pats the spot next to him invitingly.

You quirk an eyebrow, confused by his words. "Um, no puedo...hablar mucho Español."

"You can't speak Spanish?"

Pausing, you stare at him, completely dumbfounded. "_You _can speak English?"

"Well," he begins with a shrug of his shoulder, carefully placing the thick book on top of his lap. "Yeah."

(And apparently it's that simple.)

Half-intrigued, half-suspicious, you cautiously take a seat on the wobbly bench beside Mr. Ramos, coughing slightly when a whiff of smoke enters your nose and burns your lungs.

"Do you mind the smoke?" he asks with a heavy accent, holding up the fat cigar. "I can put it out if you want."

"It's fine," you tell him, waving the puffs of smoke away from your face.

The smell doesn't bother you at all, actually. After years of smoking, you've come to the conclusion that you prefer the bitter, pungent taste of cigarettes rather than the sweet taste of cupcakes and candy.

Your mom and dad don't approve of your nasty habit, so you only smoke when they're not around. As long as it's not drugs, you assume they're not going to waste energy worrying about it too much when they have a son out there somewhere, probably passed out in an alleyway or something.

"How did you learn?" you ask, watching as Mr. Ramos blows out a line of smoke in the opposite direction.

He looks at you with a crease in his already wrinkled forehead. "To smoke?"

"How did you learn how to speak English?" you elaborate, raising a brow. "Barely anyone in this part of town can speak English."

"Ahh..." he hums, nodding his head slowly. "Your grandfather taught me."

Your eyes narrow in thought, unaware that your grandfather knew how to speak English either. It seems you don't know a lot about everything. "He did?"

"He was a fisherman; traveled to the States many a times," the old man says, a wide grin stretching across his saggy cheeks. You wonder what memories are flashing through his ancient mind. "As we sailed from island to island, fishing and haggling and loading crates, he taught me how to speak English so well, I almost forgot my native language."

You smile crookedly, curious. "What's that?" you ask, jutting your chin towards his lap where a heavy book sits.

"Your grandfather was a very smart man," Mr. Ramos continues, without even contemplating your question. "Spoke five languages, loved to travel and explore and discover. He could have been anything."

"Then why did he choose to fish?"

Mr. Ramos scratches his full head of salt and pepper hair and shrugs a shoulder. "He liked it."

"He liked it?" you echo skeptically, because it doesn't seem very realistic to you. If he had so many other talents, why would he choose fishing of all things to make a career out of? Sure, you like to sing sometimes, but you'd never run away to New York with nothing but your vocals to live off.

"You see this?" Mr. Ramos questions, gesturing to what's before him, and you nod, because of course you see it; you're not blind or anything. "This is a photo album. It's very old and delicate, so be careful as you turn the pages."

With his shaky, wrinkled hands, Mr. Ramos carefully places the huge photo album in your lap. Tentatively, you flip through the album and take in the black and white pictures pasted to the yellowing pages. "Is this you?" you ask, pointing to a picture of two men standing in front of a_Rodriguez _sailboat.

Sighing through his nose, Mr. Ramos smiles wistfully and nods his head. "Sure is," he affirms, tracing the edge of the photograph with his pointer finger. "And that's your abuelo."

You kind of already knew that, but you nod anyway and say, "Really?" because you want to hear him talk more about the old days, since your grandmother never does.

Instead of answering your question, though, Mr. Ramos takes a long drag from his cigar and asks, "Have you ever heard of a conspiracy?"

"Um..." you murmur, distracted as you continue to turn the pages of the photo album. "Yeah, of course."

"Well, cariño," Mr. Ramos says gently, an odd look of sadness and regret in his eyes, and you pause, looking at him with a questioning crease between your brows. "I don't think your grandfather died of an infection." He swallows thickly, taking a moment to prepare himself. "I think he was poisoned."

Your blood runs cold on the inside, but you don't know how to react on the outside. For the first time tonight, you remember this is the man your grandmother calls _loco_, and now you wonder how much truth there is to her words.

You don't want to believe him, but he just looks so serious, and you wonder again if he's drunk. You narrow your eyes and look at him carefully. He doesn't really seem drunk other than the glassiness in his eyes. He smells like burnt wood, not hard liquor, so you suppose he's sober enough.

Sensing your skepticism, Mr. Ramos points to a photo in the album and says, "This woman was hot stuff back in the day, but she was off limits to us."

Assuming _us_ means Mr. Ramos and your abuelo, you look back down at the album and narrow your eyes on a picture of your grandfather and a woman with her back turned to the lenses, as if playing coy. They're at a restaurant, and the woman is smoking a cigar. Her dress is plain, only a dark ribbon tied around her hips to add flare to the ensemble.

"That didn't stop your grandfather though," Mr. Ramos continues, his gravelly voice low and weak. "She was meant to marry someone from _her_part of town, but your grandfather made her fall in love with him, and well..."

(_The rest is history_, you think to yourself.)

You can't see the woman's face, but the way she holds her cigar between her middle and ring finger is unmistakable. It's weird, looking at a picture of them together, so young, so full of life, so happy, knowing now that your abuelo's dead, knowing now that your grandmother is so sad she barely leaves the house anymore.

"The family of the man she was supposed to marry was livid because apparently some deals were made." Mr. Ramos flips to another page, and you whisper a silent goodbye to the photo of your grandparents. "Before your grandfather died, he told me to keep an eye on Rita, and I swore to him that I would."

The story he tells immediately connects in your mind; envy and conspiracy and murder and false promises tangle up in your chest with a burning hate. "Why are you telling _me _this?" you ask softly, still staring down at the old photos. "Why didn't you tell the police?"

Mr. Ramos chuckles humorlessly. "Silly girl," he mutters under his breath, staring deeply at the smoke swirling in front of his face. "Silly, silly girl. There was nothing I could do. They wouldn't believe me. Who was I compared to the Rodriguez family? Who am I _now_? Nothing. I couldn't even help my friend, so the only way to avenge his death was to adhere to his dying wish and watch over Rita for him."

You ignore the way he calls you a silly girl in favor of trying to completely understand what Mr. Ramos is saying exactly. "Wait..." You pause, stare forward, and say, "Jump back and rewind."

"What?"

"I said _rewind_," you repeat, quickly flipping back a few pages in the photo album. "Back up a little bit and repeat what you just said."

Mr. Ramos narrows his gray eyebrows. "Um..." he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. "No one would believe me? Silly girl, uh...who am I compared to the Rodriguez fam-"

"Pause, right there," you instruct, just as you find the page in the photo album where Mr. Ramos and your abuelo are standing in front of a_Rodriguez _sailboat. "Is this the boat you worked on?"

"Yes."

"And Rodriguez was the last name of the man who wanted to marry my grandma?"

"Yes," he exasperates, waving his lit cigar around frantically. "This is what I've been trying to tell you."

"So, you think _they _killed him?" you ask skeptically.

Mr. Ramos nods. "I _know _they killed him," he tells you, blowing out a line of smoke. "Years of pent up anger finally released. Decades of envy and greed finally exposed." He continues to mumble on about conspiracy and hate, but you're not really listening as you turn the pages and find the picture of your grandparents again.

(They were so happy.)

So, maybe Miss Paxton was right. Maybe history does repeat itself, because there was once a time you were happy with Skye, before lies and secrets and life got in the middle of everything you had together.

You're still not sure if you should believe this old man just because of a few pictures and a truly dubious yet insightful story about love and conspiracy. If the story's not true, it was surely entertaining, so you suppose that should account for something.

* * *

Wiggling your toes in the sand, you close your eyes and pull down on the bill of your Dodgers cap to hide your face from the sun.

Although you try not to think about it, your mind won't stop drifting away to thoughts of your grandfather's footprints in the sand on this beach. You wonder if he liked the beach as much as you do.

There's just something about the peacefulness and tranquility at the beach, breathing in the salt water and soaking in the warm sun that makes you feel calm and forget all of the _conspiracies _Mr. Ramos drunkenly spewed the other night. You're still not sure if you believe what he said, but it _did _make a lot of sense.

(Sort of.)

Only wearing a pair of thin shorts and a white tank top, you lay flat on your back in the warm sand beside Quinn and stare up at the sky. The sound of waves crashing against the shore reminds you of the whoosh of traffic back in the city where you were born and raised. Sometimes you miss the streets, the high skyscrapers, the noisy kids rapping on the stoop, the ice cream truck _la-la-la-ing_ down the road.

But sometimes, thinking about downtown Houston reminds you of the friends you lost after everything with Skye happened. Your friends were her friends, and vice versa. Once things ended between the two of you in a less than clean breakup, your friends had no other choice but to pick a side, and it came as no surprise when they all stuck with Skye instead of you.

(And you kind of don't blame them. She needed them more than you, after all.)

Letting out a yawn, Quinn shifts in the sand beside you, breaking you out of your thoughts. You tilt your head sideways and smile at the way she's nose-deep in a thick novel. You still don't know a whole lot about Quinn, but if it's one thing you know for sure, she loves to read autobiographies and memoirs about slightly psychotic individuals, like Susanna Kaysen from _Girl, Interrupted, _or Sylvia Platt from _The Bell Jar._

Not only that, but you've maybe kind of become her muse and inspiration this summer. You don't mind her taking pictures of you. Your dark pupils have gotten used to the blinding flash, so you're not really worried about losing your eyesight.

It's always at the most odd moments too. Like, when you're kneeling down, tying your shoelaces, or kicking a rock down the pathway, or shooing a fly out of your face. They're the most ridiculous snapshot scenarios, but they always come out looking like a piece of art.

What you're really worried about is not having any memories of your own once this summer is over. You don't have a camera, so it's nearly impossible to sneak any snapshots of Quinn when she's not paying attention.

Sucking up your pride, you wring your fingers together on your stomach and stare up at the quickly darkening sky. "You sure have a lot of pictures of me," you muse quietly.

It's only meant as a random comment; something to wonder about in the silence surrounding you. Jose used to say random things all of the time. You're not sure if it was because he was high, or if he was just a philosophical person who questioned the world, wondered why life is the way it is.

You've never met anyone as smart as him, and it's sad, kind of, thinking about everything he missed out on, all of the unknown treasures he could have discovered and loved and cherished.

Quinn chuckles at your uneasy expression, continuing to read the thick novel in her hands, and you wonder if the title on the cover is _Looking for Alaska_. "Yes, I do," she whispers, a small smile curling at her lips.

"Why do you take them?" Carefully, you sit up in the sand and rub the back of your neck. "For your own personal stash? For a school project? For..."

"Do you not like me taking pictures of you?" Quinn asks, setting her book down in her lap.

She doesn't sound defensive, not exactly, so you don't think you hit a sore spot, but you do see something you've never quite seen on her face before. (Bashfulness? Embarrassment? Nerves?)

Self-consciously, Quinn runs a hand through her short, blonde locks and side-glances in your direction. "Because if it makes you uncom-"

"No, no," Raising your hands, you shake your head, because it's nothing like that. "It's nothing like that, Q. It's just..." You pause, let out a long sigh, and count to five, because counting to ten would be too lengthy of a silence, and then things will feel awkward, and you really don't have the patience for that right now. "It's just that you have all these pictures of me, and like, I have no pictures of you."

You shrug a shoulder, trying to play it off as nothing, but you can feel Quinn eyeing your profile, and it's making you feel warm even though it's the coolest day of the summer.

The whistle of the wind just further alerts you to the awkward silence, and you inwardly curse yourself, because why did you feel it necessary to bring this up again?

Staring off into the ocean, you scratch the back of your head uneasily. Your hair is a little bit matted from the humidity yesterday, and you haven't washed it in awhile, so maybe you should do that some time soon.

Without a word, Quinn picks up her bag and places it on her lap, raking through the items inside before pulling out her photo album. You watch from out the corner of your eye as she peels off a few random Polaroid photos, enough to make a thick stack.

"Here," she says, and when you turn your head to look at her, the first thing you see is the amused smirk on her pink lips as she looks at you from under her eyelashes, hazel eyes bright with something you can't quite pinpoint.

You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until you exhale out through your nose. Hesitantly, because this just seems too good to be true, you reach out for the stack of pictures and smile when you see the one placed at the top. It's the picture Mike took of Quinn's face nearly smushed against the camera lens.

(You don't care how cheesy it sounds; this one might be your favorite of all.)

"My dad used to love taking pictures," Quinn says, stuffing her photo album back into her messenger bag. "He wasn't a professional or anything, but he claims his pictures held true power because they told a story rather than just capturing a distant memory no one can understand unless they were there."

You like it when she talks about her past; it's like she's trusting you with a small part of herself that you'll never fully know. "Well," you begin, wanting to sound just as philosophical as your brother. "A picture _does _capture a memory, but I suppose the story depends on the eye of the beholder. Like a book, perhaps. You have to use your imagination to fill in all of the blanks."

When you finish speaking, Quinn just stares at you. She dawns a lot of expressions and looks, but you don't think you've ever seen this one before. There's a slight smirk on her lips that says, _when did you get so fucking smart? _But then there's this glint in her eyes that say, _I knew you could do it. _Both looks make your heart swell up with pride, and your chest aches, but that's okay, because it's a good kind of ache.

As you flip through the photos, Quinn leans her head on your right shoulder. The left side of your body automatically feels colder in comparison. You don't mean to stiffen your back, but your posture must get rigid in some form by the way Quinn chuckles under her breath as she looks down at the pictures with you.

"Quinn," you whisper, turning your head slightly.

Quinn hums tiredly beside you and sinks even deeper into your side. There's so much you want to say, yet so little time to say them. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Eventually, Quinn tilts her head back, staring at you with those bright hazel eyes of hers, and now your voice is caught in your throat.

"I just..." you mumble, but then pause, knitting your eyebrows together when Quinn tugs on your arm to wrap around her waist.

"I'm cold," she explains, interlacing your fingers together on top of her firm stomach.

You're even more lost for words now. "Okay," you whisper, carefully resting your chin on her soft, blonde hair.

"Okay," Quinn mimics with a breathy laugh.

You smile and stare off into the ocean with Quinn's lithe body warm at your side. You still have so much you want to say to her, but you can't trust yourself to live with the words you want to say so badly. Quinn seems content, but you've never been too good at just thinking and breathing in the silence.

And maybe she can sense this, because with a cute giggle, Quinn pulls the bill of your cap over your eyes, and when playfully you nudge her to the side and into the sand, the moment is over. Your chance to tell her how you feel is over.

(For now.)

When you get home that evening, you dash into your room, ignoring the slight hint of empanadas cooking in the background to pin up Quinn's pictures on your wall. After awhile, Abuelita peeks into your room and watches you redecorate, but you don't care if it looks like you're in love with a cryptic, college girl you barely even know, because...maybe you are.

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_As I fall asleep tonight, I tell myself to lay off the drug that is Quinn's charming smile for awhile; lay off her breathy laugh, silky smooth voice, light brown freckles, her choppy blonde locks, but then...then I picture her face, I see her exuberant grin in my dreams, and eventually, I forget everything I just promised myself._

_Because promises are worthless. It's actions that really make a difference._

* * *

Mike's grandma lives in China.

Quinn's grandma lives in France.

Sam's grandma lives in Canada.

Puck's grandma lives in Israel.

Your grandma lives in Mexico.

Everyone's grandmother lives in a different country.

(This is the only thing you have in common with these people.)

Mike is hyperactive and jittery, but only because he needs to keep moving or else he fears he'll just stop and never start up again. Sam is quiet and reserved, but when you get him out of his shell, his personality is so huge you can't even wrap your arms around it. Puck has his moments when his insults aren't demeaning and directed towards anyone whose name is Santana.

Quinn's the biggest Rubix Cube you have ever seen, but you think if you figure out her secrets and turn the edges enough over and over again, you just might be able to solve her puzzle and decode her spectacular enigma.

Quinn is a person; just like you, Mowgli, your abuelita, your brother, your mom and dad. She's just a person, and sometimes you have to pinch yourself to snap out of it, because she's Quinn, and you think you're falling, but that's not possible, because you don't even remember jumping.

She's just beautiful and kind and smart and, yes, you know you probably sound like a lovesick puppy, but at least this feeling keeps you from feeling numb, and you suppose that's what counts.

Not a lot of things counted before this summer. Not a lot of things mattered to you anymore after Jose happened, after Skye happened. Everything happened, and you didn't know what to do, so you stopped doing everything.

But Quinn, with her hazel eyes and pink lips; she makes you want to stop doing nothing and start to doing anything. You don't know what it is; what you're meant to do, how you're meant to do it, and when it's meant to be done. All you know is that Quinn's here, and in this moment, you want nothing more than to do this summer with her, because that may be all you'll ever have with her.

"Definitely Africa," Quinn claims, sticking her foot into a giant pothole, and you almost lose your wits.

"Don't step in it," you huff, pushing her aside, gently of course, because it's still Quinn, and no matter how worked up you get, you'd never hit to hurt her. "You'll ruin the perfect structure of _South America._"

"Santana," she begins, in that condescending tone you're desperately trying not to find attractive at the moment. "I take a global studies course at the University of Los Angeles. I've travelled to countries all over the world. I think I know an Africa-shaped pothole when I see one."

The two of you, standing in the middle of the street, arguing over what shape this giant pothole resembles, must really look stupid to the outside viewer, but you like how Quinn doesn't give a shit about what anyone thinks and continues to argue with you like this is the most important discussion she's ever had.

You're only in front of your abuelita's house and the road is completely deserted, so you doubt anyone's listening to the two of you anyway, but you like the thought of her looking like an idiot with you.

About ten minutes ago, Quinn knocked on your door, explaining something about _today is the day_. You had no idea what she was talking about, but you followed her anyway.

Right when she was explaining further, you had tripped over a massive pothole, like the klutz you are. Now here you stand, ten minutes later, arguing over what country the shape of this pothole most closely resembles.

You narrow your eyes at the hole in the black concrete, purse your lips, fold your arms over your chest, and try to imagine a map. You never really paid much attention in your Changing World History course, so it is possible you could be wrong, but you're not the type of person to back down from a fight, especially with one against Quinn.

"How could you say this looks_ anything_ like Africa?" you scoff, shaking your head in mock confusion. "This part right here-" you gesture your hand near the bottom half of the pothole "-is totally Argentina."

"No," Quinn counters, crouching down on her tiptoes to get a better look at the hole. "This is definitely South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique we're looking at. And if you don't believe me, I can call Puck and ask him. He took a geography course last semester. He'd surely know."

(Puck. The last thing you want to see on this lovely day is Puck.)

"No, that's okay, I believe you," is your quick response. "Africa, it is."

Quinn smiles that victorious smile of hers, and you kind of don't mind that she won this round, even though you know she purposefully used Puck's presence against you, because she's Quinn, and you're pretty sure she can do whatever the hell she wants without any consequences, because, well...she's Quinn.

You think you're having one of those moments that only exist in movies, because Quinn's still smiling at you, yet her grin has settled down from smug to sincere, and somehow, you're smiling back at her, just as sincerely. You're both in the middle of the street, right in front of your abuelita's house in Mexico, it is hot as balls outside, and you're certain Quinn is licking her lips because she wants to kiss you, but then-

"Troubles!"

Ever heard of bubbles bursting? Well, this bubble that you live in almost every day of your life and so graciously let Quinn enter has just been popped by the pointiest, shiniest needle known to man. You try not to look too annoyed as you turn your head and glare towards Mr. Ramos' house.

The old man is on his knees, sobbing into his wrinkled hands. Your irritated expression immediately turns into one of concern, but you don't think to find out what's wrong with the old man until you're standing alone in the middle of the street, silently watching as Quinn climbs Mr. Ramos' porch to help him to his feet.

Sighing, because you were this close, _this_ close to kissing her, you jog slowly to the porch and gaze up at Quinn as she murmurs soft words into Mr. Ramos' ear to calm him down. "Está bien. Está bien," she hushes. "Lo que está mal va a estar bien."

Mr. Ramos' sobbing slowly dies down, and you manage a reluctant smile at the way Quinn rubs his back in small, soothing circles and continues to whisper soft words into his ear to keep him calm.

You've never been very good around crying people. You're sensitive, sure, but you're not the sentimental type. Tears make you cringe, so you try to stay away from _that _as much as possible.

Quinn is really good at this comforting stuff. You wonder if it's something she learned from visiting so many countries and helping so many different people, or maybe it's just a Quinn thing. Maybe she's just naturally good at heart. This thought makes you smile to yourself as you climb the steps once you're absolutely positive all remnants of tears have vanished.

It turns out, Mr. Ramos' hound dog died in his sleep last night. The howling used to keep you up at all hours of the night along with that damn bird, but throughout the weeks, you've gotten so used to the sounds that they've become quite soothing to you.

In the beginning of the summer, you would have definitely noticed the lack of howling and barking, but you suppose you've gotten so used to the sounds, you didn't even notice when they all came to a complete stop in the middle of the night.

When you enter his house, you have to hold your breath, because it smells like dead dog. Quinn grabs a can of fragrance and sprays every inch of air in the house. You remain silent by the door, because the smell of death is quite nauseating, even if it's only a dog that has passed away.

(Either way, death in general is still pretty sad to think about.)

Right now, as you stand near the door and as far away from death as possible, you hope Troubles is in a better place. He was old and slow and had a slight limp in his left hind leg. You didn't know Troubles the dog very well, obviously, but he seemed like a good dog, with his droopy eyes and long, floppy ears.

Mr. Ramos comes from the back of the house, and you have to look away when you see the limp bundle of fur in his arms. Troubles was no small dog, so it's clear that Mr. Ramos is struggling to carry the hound dog out the backdoor. Quinn tries to help as much as she can without actually touching the deceased dog or breathing in its horrid scent, and you follow far behind as you exit the house and shuffle into the backyard.

You finally offer some assistance when Quinn asks you to help her dig a hole while Mr. Ramos has a moment with Troubles alone. You try not to look directly at the dead dog nor the swarm of flies around his coat as you shovel into the dirt.

Sweat drips down the sides of your face, the hot sun shining straight down on you because there is no shade in Mr. Ramos' backyard. You're about to ask Quinn if you can maybe take a five minute break, but when you see the sadness in her eyes, you keep shoveling without word.

"Today we gather to bury Troubles the hound dog," Quinn says, only speaking in English now that you've informed her of Mr. Ramos' secret. "He was, um...a loyal friend and good companion. Today, on the first of August, we are all very saddened to see him go."

It took about a half an hour to break through the hard ground. You know you're going to suffer from sore muscles in the morning, but the look on Mr. Ramos' face as he lays Troubles in his grave is all worth it. He almost looks relieved to let him go now, as if there's something better waiting for Troubles in the next life over.

(Somewhere in your heart, you hope it's true.)

You all say some words about Troubles. You mention the time he broke into your abuelita's backyard and peed on your favorite denim shorts that were hooked on the clothing line. You were actually really pissed about that, but you try to make the story as humorous as possible in order to make Mr. Ramos smile.

After you finish speaking, trailing off awkwardly when you run out of stuff to say, Mr. Ramos recalls many of the good times he had with Troubles. You probably stand there for a good twenty minutes listening to a story about the time Troubles got Mr. Ramos a date with a Mexican barista.

Then Quinn, who never even knew Troubles existed before today, says some words about life and death and how the two aren't as different as everyone believes. She sighs, and you wish you were close enough to feel the breath of her exhale on your skin. "All things are difficult before they are easy," she says, just a whisper, and you feel a shiver go up your spine; it's chilling and cold, but you like it, because Quinn gave it to you.

Mr. Ramos nods, but he doesn't say anything as you and Quinn both grab a shovel and begin to pile the dirt back into the hole and on top of Troubles. It's the closest thing you'll ever get to saying goodbye to anyone you've lost in your life.

As if this were a real funeral, old Mr. Ramos sets out some cheese and crackers after you head back into the kitchen. Out of chivalry and kindness, you and Quinn eat everything he gives you. Mr. Ramos doesn't say anything the whole time, just stands by the kitchen window and gazes out at Troubles' grave.

A white stone sits right on top of the soft dirt. You put it there just so Mr. Ramos wouldn't forget the exact spot Troubles was buried, but looking at it now, the white stone kind of looks nice there. Quinn even sprinkled some sunflower seeds that she found in a flower pot, hoping something will grow after a good rain shower or two.

Throughout your _meal _of cheese and crackers, you try to make eye contact with Quinn, desperately wanting to leave, because there's a point when things go from nice to creepy, and remaining in his house after dark is _far _beyond creepy. After multiple attempts to gain Quinn's attention, you finally catch her eye and blink slowly. Quinn just nods in understanding and whispers something into Mr. Ramos' ear.

"Okay," he murmurs, shrugging his shoulders lamely.

He is starting to shut down; you can see it in his eyes. The realization and total impact of Troubles' death is beginning to weigh heavily on him. You can tell Quinn doesn't want to leave him here by himself to deal with the brunt alone.

(Something deep in your gut tells you she once had to deal with something like this alone.)

"Refusing to talk about it isn't going to get rid of the problem," Quinn says, after you've left the old man's house. Raising an eyebrow, you glance Quinn's way just as she's walking over the South America/Africa pothole. "An addiction is like a weed in a garden. It won't go away if you ignore it. You have to find where the weed is coming from and treat the weed before it becomes too unruly and hard to handle."

Your walking feet slowly come to a stop in the middle of the street. "An addiction?"

Quinn seems to notice her mistake and stops short. You stare at her back with an arched brow and watch as she slowly turns around. It's dark outside now, and you can only see the way her eyes widen momentarily from the gleam of the moonlight against her face.

"I mean," she trails off, tucking her hands into her shorts. "Depression can be an addiction, and you know, I don't want Mr. Ramos to fall into that."

Skeptically, you knit your eyebrows together and nod, because it's obvious she doesn't want to talk about whatever she really meant. You're not the type to force answers out of people before they're ready, so you let it go, though you don't stop thinking about it.

Addiction.

For a seventeen year old girl from Houston, Texas, you know a lot more about addiction than you should. Every time you think of your brother, that word pops up into your head.

(You can't help it; force of habit, you suppose.)

For awhile, you tried to pretend nothing was happening to your brother. Sure, he came home at all hours of the night, started hanging out with a different crowd, and barely included you in his life anymore, but you thought that was because he was getting older.

"He'll be back to being your big brother before you know it," your father used to say, after you'd ask him why Jose was acting so weird. "He's just going through some things at the moment. When you're a teenager, you'll understand."

Now, you're finally a teenager. You've been a teenager for four years now, but you still don't understand what your father meant. You never went through what Jose did with the drugs and alcohol thing. And your father was wrong about Jose being your big brother again.

You hadn't always been so ignorant to believe your brother had a problem. You remember the first time you caught him with the stuff. You weren't surprised, of course, because you're not stupid.

1) You knew the kind of people he hung out with.

2) You could smell his clothes whenever he came home from a party.

3) You saw the redness in his eyes.

Whatever he was using, cocaine, marijuana, whatever, it was surely taking its toll.

Now that it was right in front of your face, you couldn't pretend it wasn't happening anymore, so you threatened to tell Ma if he didn't stop. And for awhile, he did. You were actually dumb enough to believe you were getting your big brother back. That was until Ma came to you with a rolled up blunt in her hand.

You were sitting on the couch, lazily flipping through the channels when she stood right in front of the television. You had rolled your eyes and thought she was about to nag you about your bad grades this semester when you looked up and saw what she was holding.

"What's this, Santana?" she asked.

Your first response was to be blunt and say, _That's a blunt, Ma._ Your second response was to cover for Jose; lie and say it was Billy's blunt, or John's blunt, or Nicholas' blunt, or whatever name of your brother's old friends you could remember.

Your last response, though, was honesty, and strangely, that's what ended up coming out that day.

The truth.

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_Why death? There's such a thin line between life and death, you think we'd cherish it more. You're alive one second, and then the next, that's it, you're gone._

_For years, we live and breathe, in and out, inhale, exhale. We do this every day without even realizing it, without stopping, without fail, until...one day it all ends._

_It can be a complete accident, happening in just the split of a second, which in most cases is the absolute worst, because there is always this silent, haunting question of what if._

_Some deaths are slow and withering, like a wilting flower or a dying tree. You know it's coming eventually, and once it comes, the release is such a relief, because now there is no more pain, no more waiting, no more hurting._

_And some deaths happen slowly but knowingly. Your time has come, and although you are sad to leave, and your loved ones are sad to see you leave, you know your life is complete, you have lived to your full capacity with no regrets, and it's your time to leave this world and go on to a better place._

_So, why death? Why can't we just live forever, be these immortal beings we read about in Greek Mythology or in the Bible? Why does the blood in our veins stop flowing, why do our brains stop calculating, why do our hearts stop beating?_

_It could be as simple as the circle of life. We must move on to make space for the newcomers. We must give nutrients to the earth when our bodies return to where we first originated._

_Death is life, but what's scary is the unknown. In life, we have no idea where we will go, where we end up, and in death, we all face that same exact uncertainty._


	9. sí, estoy triste

**Chapter 9: sí, estoy triste**

_Dear Journal,_

_I can't remember the last time I had sex. I can't remember where I was, whom I was with, or whether it was good or not. All I know is that Skye was nowhere near when it happened._

_I remember sweat and panting and grunting and the slight smell of alcohol on the woman's breath, and then, blackness. Followed by the blackness, there was guilt and regret and self-hatred, but that didn't stop me from doing it again._

_It happened so many times, it eventually became unhealthy. I'm no sex-addict. I couldn't have been with more than five or six women in total. I have no excuse for my actions. I would just find myself with nothing to do, head over to the nearest gay bar, and pick up whichever woman looked my way first._

_No one ever asked for ID or my age, and I didn't ask them. It just sort of happened; a quickie in the bathroom, a one night stand in some woman's apartment, anything, really._

_I wasn't searching for release, orgasms, or pleasure. Quite the contrary, actually. I didn't want to feel. I didn't want to feel good either. And I didn't want to remember my transgressions the morning after. All I really wanted was something to fill the empty hole in my chest after Jose went away._

_I'm only seventeen, so why was this happening to me?_

_My therapist, Dr. Rosenthal, a short, stumpy German man with fat fingers, said I wasn't a sex-addict because I didn't enjoy the euphoria of the sexual activity, or seek any pleasure from the sexual experiences._

_So, maybe I was a masochist? That was my next thought. This diagnosis, though, was eventually disproven as well._

_The sex thing was just one of my many problems. I was originally at therapy to talk about my anger, but somehow I'd started talking about sex with my girlfriend and sex without my girlfriend and the differences and if you ever tell my parents, doctor, I swear to God I'll stop coming to therapy._

_I still don't know if he told them, but let's look at the facts; my mom knows what happened with me and Skye, and I am in a different country for trying to steal an At-Home STD test kit, so it's quite possible they sensed-_

"Hey, you."

You slam your journal shut. You take a breath. You will your damn heart to stop thumping so fucking hard in your chest. Then, carefully, you look up. "Hi," you say, quite breathlessly from your mini heart attack.

Sometimes, when you write, you forget you're in public. Your brain stops producing logical thoughts, your mind starts wandering. It happens fast and without much warning, making it easy for people with light footsteps and blonde hair to sneak up on you with that brilliant smile of hers.

You glance around and nod to yourself.

(Good, you're still sitting in front of Café de Esperanza.)

"You okay?" Quinn asks, flipping her bangs out of her face with just the shake of her head. "Look quite startled there."

"Not startled, just surprised," you clarify while discreetly tucking your journal into your messenger bag. "What are you doing here anyway? Thought you had volunteer work today."

"I did," she says, shifting her backpack higher on her shoulders. "Puck and I made a deal. I come to the market and buy his favorite cashews, and he picks up my shift for me."

You nod, because it seems like a pretty good deal to you. "So, win-win."

"Kinda," Quinn sighs, shaking the can of cashews in her hand. "Except these nuts are super expensive. I just didn't feel like working today."

Your eyebrow quirks unwillingly. "What _did _you feel like doing today?"

"Actually," she singsongs coyly, plopping down beside you, so close that you can almost smell the type of shampoo she uses. "I was on my way to see you. Thought maybe we could continue what we started the other day."

It sounds like she's flirting, because Quinn is always flirting. You suppose she just can't help that she's a naturally flirtatious person. Like Puck said, she likes to touch and smile and wink and lick those delectable lips of hers. Most of the time, she's doing it unknowingly, which is quite a bummer indeed.

Quinn's definitely not easy, but she sure is easy to fall for. You don't want to hurt her by falling too deep too soon, so right now, in this moment, you promise to keep your lovestruck self under control.

"Which is?" you prompt, unsure of what she's talking about, because the two of you always seem to get interrupted.

"Oh, c'mon, you remember..." She rotates her wrist in a _think harder _fashion, so you do, you really do try to think harder, but nothing's coming to you at the moment. "Today is the day?" Quinn continues, raising her eyebrows to her hairline.

"Oh."

It finally comes to you, and now you feel quite stupid, because that was just two days ago, but life and such has been slipping from your mind recently. You still don't know what she means by _today is the day_, but it seems you're going to have to wait a little bit longer to find out.

You wince sympathetically. "Hate to burst your bubble, but I can't right now," you tell her, reaching into your bag to take out the post-it note your aduelita gave you this morning. "My grandma sent me on mission impossible; a mission I have put off for about three hours now."

Quinn takes the piece of paper out of your hand, smiling crookedly once her eyes have scanned the sloppy script. "Mamá Maravilla," is all she says before handing the paper back.

You look at the paper. You look at Quinn. "What?"

"Mamá Maravilla," she repeats, as if this should mean something to you. "This is her address, which is also the only farm in town. Why are you going there?"

Racking your brain, you struggle to remember what your grandmother told you this morning. "To pick up some...pollos?" Rolling her eyes, Quinn lets out a nasally laugh, and you smile, because you kind of love it when she laughs like that. "What's so funny?"

"Do you have money with you?" she asks skeptically.

"No," you admit, feeling a bit sheepish. "Abuelita didn't give me any. She said they were free."

"Nothing from Mamá Maravilla is free." Quinn chuckles again, and you're not sure whether there are caterpillars or butterflies in your stomach, because they both kind of feel the same.

You don't get it. "Then why did-"

Interrupting, Quinn adds, "She doesn't let people take any of her animals unless she does a read on you first."

"A read?"

"Yeah, she's a gypsy slash fortune teller slash farmer," Quinn explains, and although this is the stupidest thing you've ever heard, you listen anyway.

(Because what reason would Quinn have to lie to you?)

"And she _only _speaks Spanish," she continues, a wry smirk stretching across her cheeks, and you know what this smirk entails. She's up to something. You can feel it in your bones.

"Quinn," you begin, pinching your lips together in thought. "Since you obviously have nothing better to do, would you mind accompanying me to this mysterious address?"

"Hmm..." she contemplates, tapping the side of her beautifully defined jawline. "What's in it for me?"

Somehow, you saw this coming. "Can't you just help a poor soul out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I do that everyday."

"Fine," you concede, shifting on the bench so that you're now face to face. Her eyes are unwavering, set firmly on your own, but you're not that brave. Swallowing thickly, you glance to your right before refocusing your eyes on her bright hazels. "What do you want?"

"A secret," she says, without even a second of thought.

"A secret," you repeat, eyes still focused forward, and you're kind of proud of yourself for not backing down yet.

Quinn's gaze is intense, especially when she blinks all slow-like. "Tell me one of your deepest, darkest secrets," she whispers, and you _would _take a moment to wonder why she's whispering, but- "And I'll not only translate for you, but I'll lead the way to her house."

"Seriously? A secret?" Your gaze drops slightly, from her fiery eyes, to her cute little nose, to her glossy pink lips. You try to think of a secret of yours, but too many come rushing to your brain all at once. "Well, you already know that I'm gay."

Quinn harrumphs and leans an elbow over the bench. "That's no secret. I could tell you were gay after our second conversation," she says matter-of-factly, then adds, "Played you like a fiddle."

Your eyes snap up from a smirking pair of pink lips back to those eyes. You can't think straight, being this close to her and all. "Wait..." you trail off, inhaling one more whiff of Quinn's body mist before backing off some. "_That's _why you flirted with me?" You're not angry, just curious, but Quinn seems a little taken aback.

(Maybe it was your tone?)

"Don't tell me you're mad I flirted with you," she murmurs disbelievingly, but you're not really listening, more concentrated on replaying that day over in your mind when Quinn saved you from the toothless lady at the food stand. "Because, well, I just wanted to see what you'd-"

"I _knew _I wasn't imagining it," you whisper, mostly to yourself. "You _were _flirting with me then."

"_Yes_, I was flirting," Quinn interjects, and you smile, because you know she hates being left out, even when it's just the two of you and your thoughts. "You can't really blame me, though. You're kinda adorable."

"Adorable?"

"Yes," she says, nodding firmly, as if this is fact. "Now, back to the subject at hand."

It takes you a moment to remember what the subject at hand is. "I have no secrets," you easily fib.

(Lie?)

Crossing her legs, Quinn fills in the space you created a few minutes ago by scooting over. "I find that very hard to believe," she admits, pursing her lips enticingly, because somehow she knows you love her lips. "C'mon, don't you trust me?"

This feels like a test. You've never been very good at those. You probably would have failed most tests and quizzes in middle school if it wasn't for your brother. "I, um..." You bite your bottom lip, hard. Sweat gathers on your temple; you're not sure whether it's from the heat or your jangled nerves. "I tried...to rob a drug store."

(Whoa, it feels good to get that out.)

Cocking her head to the side in confusion, Quinn crinkles her nose and says, "That's...not the confession I was expecting."

You're sweating; the back of your neck is soaked, and you're pretty sure your collarbone is glistening under the hot sun. You'll start boiling like a fried egg soon if you don't get your nerves under control.

"I knew it was a bad idea, I knew I shouldn't have, but I had to, in a way. I was embarrassed, and no one could know about it, so I just acted," you ramble all in one breath, your face flushed a deep shade of red. "And I almost got away with it too, but this little kid saw me and started yelling that I was shoplifting, then the police showed up, and everything totally got blown out of proportion."

Silence follows your blurted confession. Your eyes are wide, cheeks burning hot, but Quinn just stares at you, blinks a few times and asks, "What did you steal?" Her voice is so soft and understanding, as if she's some kleptomaniac who's been through a similar ordeal.

Completely floored, all you can really do is shrug a shoulder and say, "I didn't..._steal _it." There's another pause as you just silently look at each other. "Exactly..."

"Okay," Quinn responds, sliding her arm over the back of the bench until she's lightly touching your arm. "What did you _try _to steal?"

(_Admitting you have a problem is the first step_, you hear Dr. Rosenthal recite in the back of your head.)

"I-I don't really want to talk about it," you tell her, because even after months of therapy and isolation, it's still a touchy subject. Standing abruptly and quite possibly startling Quinn in the process, you drape your messenger bag over your shoulder and jut your chin down the pathway. "So, I told you my secret. Can we go now?"

Quinn stands too, albeit less frantically, and nods. "Lead the way."

"I thought you were leading."

"Oh." She smiles weakly. "Right."

* * *

"Qué?"

(Sometimes, you really wish you paid attention in Spanish class.)

"Chick-en," you say again, slower this time.

Resting a hand on your shoulder, Quinn steps up with that charming smile of hers and whispers, "Pollo," into your ear.

"Right," you nod, shuffling your feet on the welcome mat. "I mean pollo. Sí."

Quinn chuckles, and you _would _take a moment to blush in embarrassment if you weren't so annoyed with the woman standing in front of you, blocking the doorway like some kind of strict bouncer.

"Let me handle this," she whispers into your ear again.

Nodding silently, you back away from the porch and take a deep breath to relieve your frustration. With your arms folded stubbornly, you watch and listen as Quinn and the elderly woman who looks a lot like a Mexican Whoopi Goldberg (in a gold turban) chat back and forth and back and forth.

By the time Quinn turns back to you, it's been about five whole minutes of speedy conversation, and just, you're totally lost now, unsure of what anything means anymore. "What did she say?" you ask, glancing over Quinn's shoulder.

"Like I predicted, she wants to do a reading on both of us," she tells you.

"Fuck," you sigh, and hope this doesn't take as long as it sounds.

"Fuck indeed." Interlacing her fingers with yours, Quinn winks and tugs you along, whispering, "C'mon."

Very reluctantly, you enter the small home behind Quinn. It's dark and dreary, and you've never physically been to a farm before, but you know they look nothing like this; dusty paintings hang from the walls, purple and red rugs lay in random places all over the ground, strange decorations like voodoo dolls and elephant tusks sit on high shelves.

Keeping your eyes wide open and alert, you grasp onto Quinn's hand tighter and follow her and the old woman into a small room. A giant chair with bedazzled jewels attached to the edges sits behind a desk. You dubiously eye the tarot cards and crystal balls scattered around the room as you sit crossed leg on a burgundy rug beside Quinn.

"Where're the animals?" you whisper under your breath, watching closely as Mamá Maravilla scampers around the stuffy room.

Quinn leans to the side, nudging you in the shoulder teasingly. "Probably in the backyard," she whispers back. "Why? You scared?"

Rolling your eyes, you nudge her back. "No, I'm not scared," you scoff, smirking to yourself, because _ha,_ that's the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. "What's she doing?"

"Searching for her black pot to cook you in."

"Stop it," you whimper; not because you're scared, though.

(Cannibalism is just really gross. That's why.)

"I knew you were scared," Quinn chuckles, pinching your sides, and you squirm away from her, because it's mostly _her _who's scaring you right now. "San, chill out. All she's gonna do is read our palms, say some stuff we already know, and then give us a dead chicken."

Scooting back over, you take the hand Quinn offers you and let out a breath of air when she squeezes reassuringly. The two of you wait another five to seven minutes as Mamá Maravilla sets out over a dozen candles and dims the lights in preparation for the ceremony.

(And you make sure to keep an eye out for any black pots.)

With a wicked grin, Mamá Maravilla kneels before you. She takes your hand first, and you almost flinch when she starts to rub a cold, blue gel over your fingers. "This is gross," you deadpan, cringing in disgust. "What is this?"

"No idea," Quinn mumbles, squinting her eyes curiously, and you're this close to pulling your hand away and running out the house, but Mamá Maravilla starts talking, and all you can really make out are the words _viva _and _mucho_.

"What's she saying?" you ask Quinn, eyes glued to your gooey hands.

"She says your hands are dry and you should really consider moisturizing them."

Ducking your head, you narrow your eyes on hazel. "Two words, Q," you whisper, eyebrows furrowed. "Bull. Shit."

Quinn lolls her head sideways and looks you in the eyes with a soft expression. "She said you've faced a lot of hardship and struggle in your life, but there's a guardian angel over your shoulder here to turn things around," she explains, squeezing your fingers again. "I don't know. Something along those lines."

Mamá Maravilla hands you a hand towel to wipe off all of the nasty blue stuff. You don't think too much into what she said. Sure, it's all true, but you suppose this crazy, old woman says the same thing to all of her clients.

(After all, what kind of person _doesn't _go through struggles and hardships in their life?)

Mamá Maravilla takes Quinn's hand next. There's a bit of silence, some mumbled words in Spanish, then out of absolutely nowhere, the old woman starts talking louder and louder with this huge, giddy grin on her face. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Quinn blushing as she shakes her head furiously before responding in a bashful whisper.

Discreetly glancing in your direction, Mamá Maravilla just winks before dropping Quinn's hand and walking out of the room. The door slams on her way out, and Quinn flinches slightly.

Slowly, Quinn lets go of your hand and rubs her palms on her thighs. Your fingers are a bit sweaty, and you arch an eyebrow when you realize the sweat is not your own.

"What was that all about?" you ask her, carefully standing up from the rug.

"Um, I..." Quinn mumbles, standing up after you, and you wait and wait and wait, until it becomes quite apparent that she's stalling and obviously making something up from the top of her head. "She just said I'm too impulsive and crave an adventurous life or something. Nothing significant. I already knew that."

You knit your brows together, reluctant to believe the bull she's spewing. "You sure that's all?"

Quinn nods, obviously flustered. "Yup," she nods again. "That's all."

* * *

Flip the lighter open. Blazing fire. Hot, hot, hot. Burn, baby, burn. Flip the lighter closed.

Open.

Closed.

Flick.

Tsk.

Flick.

Tsk.

You take out a cig, light it up, and smoke it like a chimney.

He's staring at the back of your head; you can feel his heavy gaze focused on you, determined. Shifting restlessly on the porch step, you slap the back of your neck when a mosquito bites.

(You hate those fucking vampire bugs.)

Closing your eyes, you inhale the bitter smell of your cigarette. There's nothing better than a good smoke on a cool Sunday morning. Behind you, Mowgli clears his throat. Somehow, you don't think he agrees, especially when he needlessly clears his throat every time you take a drag.

Rolling your eyes, you crane your neck sideways and smirk. "Want one?" you offer, shaking the box of cigs noisily, just to irritate him further.

Mowgli huffs and turns up his nose. "Nope."

"Suit yourself," you singsong, shrugging a shoulder as you tuck the pack of cigarettes back into your pocket.

"You realize what smoking does, right?" he asks after a few minutes of silence.

You consider his question. "Makes nerds look cool?"

"No."

"Makes lesbians look butch?"

"No."

"Makes boring Sundays less boring?"

"Santana," he sighs, sounding exhausted. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." You've never been more serious in your entire life than you are right now. Seriously. "I never told you this, but I get anxious. Smoking gives me something to do with my hands. It takes the focus off my body and switches it to my thoughts."

(_Your body is a weapon, used for destruction and pleasure, Santana. Your thoughts are a maze, used for interpreting and deciphering_.)

You hate it when Dr. Rosenthal enters your mind like this. You thought you had left him back in downtown Houston, but it seems he boarded an airplane, snuck into your head, and travelled all the way to Mexico with you.

"Wait," Mowgli squints his eyes, trying to understand. "So, you're saying that smoking..."

He trails off, puzzled, so you pick up his slack. "Takes me away, helps me think-"

"Extinguishes your craving."

You snuffle, amused. "Excuse me?"

"I wrote a thesis paper on smoking last year," he explains, seeming pretty smug about it all.

"You? Wrote a thesis paper?"

"I'm eleven, not stupid."

(He's said this about five times this summer. Each time it's said, the words make less and less sense.)

You shrug, careless either way. "Okay."

"Smoking causes lung cancer," he continues, rocking back in his chair. "Do you really want lung cancer?"

"Obviously not," you mutter, because what you _want _is for this conversation to be over now. "What kinda sicko wants lung cancer?"

"Orange juice and video games."

"Orange juice and video games want lung cancer," you deadpan, flicking some ash off the tip of your cigarette. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"I read online that orange juice and video games help smokers who're trying to quit," he explains, sending a disgusted look to the cigarette as you place it between your lips and inhale deeply. "Supposedly, orange juice tastes bad with cigarettes, and video games give you something to do with your hands to feel less anxious. Just an idea if you ever feel like quitting."

Actually, you _have _considered quitting in the past, but you're a little full of disdain this morning, so with an exhausted yawn, you mutter, "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."

"Anytime, Amy Winehouse," he replies, letting out a heavy sigh. There's a pause, and you almost thank God for shutting him up, until Mowgli nudges you in the back with his foot and says, "Hey, look who it is."

As usual, the sun is glaring today, so you have to shield your eyes from the sky to see who's approaching. "Well, well, well," you smirk, raising your eyes more and more the closer she gets. "If it isn't my good friend, Q."

"Hola, Quinn," Mowgli says, jutting his chin in acknowledgment.

"Gabriel," Quinn greets, nodding in return. "San." Her eyes linger on you with that intense gaze in her irises; you wonder if she looks at all of her friends like that.

She drops a pair of dark shades over her eyes, thus hiding her sparkling hazels from sight. Her dusty brown boots kick at the ground, creating a cloud of dirt, causing you to cough from both the dust and the swirls of smoke coming from your lit cigarette.

"You alright there?" Quinn smirks, shoving a hand into the pocket of her ripped jeans.

"Peachy."

She nods, accepting your lie, and turns to Mowgli with a bag of shriveled pomegranates. You don't know why he likes those things so much; they're dry and wrinkly and gross. Quinn doesn't like them either, so you suspect she only picks them up as an excuse to see you, or because she's just a naturally good person.

(This time, you secretly hope it's the former.)

It's Sunday, and it's really really really hot, so you remain silent as Mowgli and Quinn talk about the sale on salmon and swordfish at the fish market. The sound of their laughter and light conversation easily calms your racing thoughts. You begin to peacefully drift off while smoking the rest of your cigarette, until you feel a kick on the side of your foot.

Opening your eyes, you warily stare up at Quinn's lopsided smile. "What?"

"Get up," she demands.

Releasing a line of smoke into the air, you lean back instead. "Why?"

"Today is the day."

"And so was yesterday, last week, and the week before that."

Quinn shrugs a helpless shoulder. "Our schedules have just been off," she says, glancing behind you, at Mowgli, probably. "But since we're both not busy today, I figured-"

You arch an eyebrow and challenge, "Who says I'm not busy?"

"Gabriel says," Mowgli speaks up, much to your chagrin. "She's not busy, Quinn. Just slowly killing her lungs one cigarette at a time."

Quinn crosses her arms and thoughtfully eyes the smoking cig in between your fingers. "I think it makes her look sexy," she smirks, taking a step closer, and your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it thumping against your back.

"How about butch?" Mowgli asks.

You whip your head sideways and growl, "Mo..."

"Yeah, that too," Quinn agrees.

"I hate you both."

"You love us," Mowgli says, then under his breath, whispers, "Some more than others."

"Mo," you warn, gritting your teeth.

"What?" he exasperates, raising his hands. "It's not my fault there's a damn foot in your mouth. Just tell her."

As you withhold from wrapping your fingers around Mowgli's neck, Quinn eyes the two of you suspiciously. "Tell me what?"

"That she likes your tits," Mowgli blurts, chuckling when you shoot up from the porch step, annoyance in your eyes.

"You little twerp," you sneer, giving chase once Mowgli dashes out of the rocking chair and hops over the railing. "If you don't get the fuck away from here right now, I promise, you will never learn the true function of your penis, and believe me, peeing isn't the only one."

You chase him halfway down the road until he disappears, and it's a wonder how anyone deals with little brothers. You could barely deal with your older one, and now, look, he's gone.

* * *

You follow her footprints in the sand. She won't tell you where she's taking you, but you don't mind. You'd follow her to the moon and back.

Quinn walks a few steps ahead of you as she leads you across the shoreline. You'd never admit it aloud, but your eyes linger on her ass as you walk. Every time she peeks over her shoulder, you have to look off into the ocean, feigning oblivion.

She giggles, because of course she knows, and sometimes you even think she's doing it on purpose; swaying her hips back and forth, running her tongue over her bottom lip, combing her fingers through her short, blonde locks.

The smirk on her thin lips easily gives it all away. Quinn thinks she's a pro at keeping her emotions hidden, but truthfully she's not as good as she thinks. You know all about keeping stuff hidden. You did it for months, once upon a time. You don't remember when you began building these walls; all you know is that you learned from the best.

Taking a few long strides, you easily catch up to Quinn in about five steps. She smiles at you with those glisteningly white teeth, and you can't help but bashfully duck your head and shove your hands into your pockets.

Days ago, you promised yourself to stop falling under Quinn's magical spell. You promised to keep your emotions in check, because what kind of lesbian wants to fall in love with their only friend?

(Their only _straight _friend.)

Not you, that's for sure. You're not going to ruin a good thing. You've done too much of that in the past. You've put your own personal feelings before the people you care deeply about, and all that's done is cause tears and heartbreak and more tears.

Ironically, none of those tears belonged to you, considering you never cry. It was mostly Skye who did the crying.

(You can't really blame her.)

Quinn says something from beside you, but you don't hear, still caught up in your thoughts about the past. You're trying to let go, because there's nothing you can do about it now. The past is in the past, and you should move on, because life moves on. Simple terminology, right? You can't get stuck in a place that no longer exists.

"San," you hear, and then again, but louder this time, "_Santana_."

"Hm?"

"We're here."

Breaking out of your thoughts, you look ahead.

You're at a cave.

"Why are we at a cave?"

"It's not just any ordinary cave," Quinn says, and you eye her skeptically, because it kind of looks like every ordinary cave at the end of a shoreline; dark and damp and eerily silent.

You peek inside, grimacing at the thick scent of seaweed and fish. "Looks pretty ordinary to me," you shrug.

Sighing through her nose, Quinn wraps her fingers around your forearm, and you try to dig your heels into the sand as she drags you along. Like you said before, you'd follow Quinn to the moon and back, but you never said anything about dark, dreary caves.

"If you follow me, you'll see just how _un_ordinary this cave really is," Quinn promises, tapping you on the tip of your nose. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

At the entrance of the cave, you slip your arm out of Quinn's loose grip and crinkle your nose. "Never deemed you the cliché type, Q."

Leaving you behind, Quinn continues to trek through the sand. "What do you have against caves anyway?"

"Just," you start, then stop, because you never even realized you had something against caves until this very moment. "Whenever I think of caves, the word Batman immediately comes to mind, then the word vampire bat, so."

"Got something against vampires too?"

"Can't have something against mystical creatures, because they don't exist."

Quinn sighs, and you'd think she was annoyed with you if it wasn't for the smile stretched across her cheeks. "So, are you coming or not?" she asks, arching a brow. With a crease in your forehead, you consider the consequences of following a girl you've only known for a month into a dark and musty cave.

"Coming," you say.

It's official; you'll only ever be friends with Quinn. You know this is true, because when you finally agree to enter the cave, Quinn grins excitedly, wraps her arms around your neck, and pecks you on the cheek, but it doesn't mean a damn thing to her.

(Though it means the world to you.)

On the outside, you freeze, but on the inside, there's molten lava flowing through your veins. Quinn doesn't seem to notice as she takes your hand and pulls you inside the cave. Turns out, there are no bats or gruppy little worms hanging around inside, though the salty scent does leave you feeling suspicious.

"I found this place about three years ago when I was a freshmen," she says, dragging you further and further into the darkness. So much blackness surrounds you, you can't even see your left hand. "It was my first volunteer trip. Puck and I were bored at the motel, so we decided to go exploring."

You don't really want to hear about Puck. You like it when she talks about her past, but it kind of sucks that Puck's a pretty big chunk of that. "So," you whisper, because, for some reason, it always seems necessary to stay quiet in the darkness. "You and Puck. What's that about?"

You try to say it as nonchalant as possible, but you don't think you succeeded when Quinn abruptly drops your hand. "What's what about?"

"You and Puck," you say again, feeling up the cave walls. "And where did you go?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I can't see."

"No," Quinn exasperates, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say you hit a nerve. "I meant, why do you care about Puck and I so much?"

"I don't care abo-"

You crash into a wall. It hurts like a motherfucker. Before you can fall to the damp cave floor, though, firm arms stretch out and wrap around your waist. You can't feel your nose, your temples are throbbing, and something thick and liquidy that tastes a lot like copper seeps through your lips.

"San," you hear, soft and distant. "Are you okay?"

"I think I'm bleeding," you mumble, falling into Quinn's arms even further. You can't tell the difference between the darkness surrounding you and the darkness clouding your brain. All you can feel is Quinn's hands all over your body, and you smile, a bit dazed.

The light, the light. You can see the light. They always say, _don't go into the light,_ but Quinn's taking you there, so you ignore that voice inside your head and continue to drag your feet through the cold, wet sand until the brightness of the sun shines through a hole in the ceiling of the cave. Squinting your eyes, you gaze up at the gaping hole and stare wonderingly at the narrow waterfall sliding down against the cave wall and into a small stream.

Quinn seats you on a stone near the pool of water, and you try your hardest not to fall forward, still feeling a bit lightheaded. The whole world feels like a dizzy place, and you briefly hope you're not concussed or anything, because you heard those can be pretty dangerous.

"You don't think I see you, but I do," Quinn says, sitting down next to you.

You smile lazily, trying to keep your eyes open as long as possible. "We're out of the dark now," you slur, leaning into Quinn's hands when she starts wiping some of the blood off your lips with a wet handkerchief. "Of course you can see me, silly."

"You're sad," she continues, caressing your cheeks with the palm of her hand. "I can tell."

You narrow your eyes, but that kind of hurts your brain, so you stop doing that. "You don't know anything," you mumble, slowly closing your eyes, because if you close them too fast, they may never open again.

"You're depressed, San," Quinn sighs, actually sounding concerned about your well-being, and you suppose you'd be super happy right now if you weren't about to pass out. "Tell me I'm wrong, S. Tell me."

Ducking your head into her smooth hands as she continues to stroke your cheeks with the pad of her thumb, you whisper, "You're wrong."

Quinn can only smirk as she pulls her hands away. "Do you always do what you're told?"

* * *

_Dear Journal,_

_I don't always do what I'm told, but with Quinn, I can't help it. She's right. I am sad. She's right. I am depressed._

_At least, that's what Dr. Rosenthal said._

_I've always refused to accept it. I've always refused to take the medication, because all it would do is put me in a haze._

_I still don't know what's wrong with me. I fall too easily, and then once I'm finally grounded, I ruin everything by starting an earthquake._

_I don't want to pull Quinn in with me. I don't want to mess her up like I did Skye. I want to stay away, but something tells me I'm not even doing the chasing; Quinn's only going fast enough for me to catch up._

* * *

"Quinn," you say.

"Santana," she answers.

"It's insane how much a banana looks like an erection," you muse, eyes glued to a fruit stand on your way down the pathway.

Quinn nods in agreement, seemingly distracted. "Especially when it's tilted in the right direction."

"Or the north direction."

"Or the north direction," Quinn echoes, continuing to nod her head, and you take a moment to wonder what she's thinking about. Her eyes are focused forward, so you follow her line of vision, but she doesn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. "Do you like bananas, San?"

This feels like one of those questions with a double meaning, but a week ago, you told Quinn you were a lesbian, so maybe this is only a single meaning question. Nevertheless, you shrug a shoulder and say, "Bananas are cool if you're into them, I guess, but I much rather prefer honeydew melons."

Quinn chuckles lightly and shakes her head. "I didn't mean penises and breasts," she says simply, and you almost choke on your saliva. "Do you like_bananas_? Like, the fruit?"

"Oh, um..." you trail off, searching for the right words, but when the right words don't come, you end up saying the truth, which is, "Yeah, I like bananas. They're pretty tasty."

Quinn looks down and frowns at her Polaroid camera. She picks it up, inspects the lenses, and fiddles with the flash. You wonder if she heard what you just said, but you guess it doesn't really matter, because Quinn's mind is already focused on something else.

"I've always wanted to do something crazy," she whispers, as you continue to walk down the dusty pathway, her camera in front of her face as she snaps a quick shot of a couple enjoying a cup of ice cream sherbet.

Quinn's not looking your way, but you shrug your shoulders anyway. "_I'm _something crazy," you mumble, mostly to yourself, but apparently Quinn hears, because she laughs, and you're happy it's dark enough where she can't see your cheeks heating up.

"Oh, really?" Quinn leans into your side to nudge you in the shoulder.

You miss her warmth as soon as she retreats, recreating the strolling distance between your bodies. In a teasing manner, you lean over and nudge her back. "Really..." you singsong, knocking her a little harder than you intended.

(Sometimes, you don't know your own strength.)

"San!" Quinn gasps out a laugh and stumbles over a little, chuckling loudly when you step up to her and wrap your arms around her so she doesn't fall to the ground.

It's a bold move on your end, but then again, you've always been a little bit crazy, just like you pointed out before. "I've got you," you whisper into her ear, smirking at the way she snuggles into your body, trying to play it off as if she's just holding onto you for balance. "Comfy, are we?"

Quinn playfully pushes you away, and the both of you go back and forth like this as you chase each other up and down the pathway, laughing like you just heard the best joke ever, no doubt getting some negative attention from the natives.

Out of breath from running and laughing, you both plop down on a nearby bench to catch your breath, but your breath just ends up getting caught in your throat when Quinn throws her legs over your lap and scoots forward as she continues to silently giggle to herself.

You're still not sure what's so funny, but you laugh along with her, because it's impossible to _not _be amused by the lazy smirk on her lips.

Quinn chuckles a little bit more before slowly calming down. The sight of her laughing; it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. If you had a camera, you'd definitely take a picture of this moment and keep it in your pocket forever.

You're both silent, listening to the sounds of the tourists and cicadas in the background as it starts to get dark out. "Today is my dad's birthday," she sighs, after a couple minutes of silence. You sit and wait for to say more while carefully trailing a finger down her tanned leg, all the way to her boney ankles.

"Yeah?" you say, when Quinn doesn't continue.

Quinn sighs again. "Yeah," she whispers solemnly. "And I almost forgot."

"I'm sure he won't mind. Did you talk to him today?"

"I talk to him everyday."

"That's good," you say, because it is good; maybe you should talk to your dad more often. "What's today anyway?"

"August tenth."

"Happy birthday, Quinn's dad."

Quinn smiles, but it just looks so sad. "Happy b-day, Daddy."

Her hair is blowing in the wind, and you realize, quite vividly, that the season is summertime and it's warm and you're in a different country and Quinn is sitting next to you. Something bubbles up in your chest, and whatever it is you can't restrain it.

Your chest feels tight, and you can't stop staring at Quinn no matter how hard you try to pull your eyes away. Suddenly, life is moving by too fast, but you want it to stop, just for a moment, just so you can stare at Quinn a little bit longer. Without thinking, because thinking is for squares, you're lurching across the bench, forcefully crashing your lips against hers.

Her lips are soft and full against your own, just like you imagined, but there's something wrong. You're kissing her, but she's not kissing you, her lips completely still against your own, and when you pull back, Quinn's just staring at you with this unreadable expression.

Your heart beats hard in your throat, and you feel nauseous, like you have to puke. She doesn't say anything, just stares at you, hazel eyes wide in surprise. You don't say anything either and stare back, an itching heat burning up your neck.

The world has always been a dizzy place for you, full of confusion and puzzles, but tonight it's even harder to steer clear of heartbreak and pain, because you can physically feel your heart ripping in half at this very moment.

You really thought she would kiss you back. You really thought she's been feeling the same feelings you've been feeling. You really believed she'd confess her love for you after the separation of one of the most spectacular kisses known to man.

Nothing you thought or believed would happen, happens. You're crushed, even more than when Ana O'Reilly forced you out of the closet in the ninth grade because, according to her, _what's the point of being in the closet if you leave the door WIDE open?_

You left the door WIDE open for Quinn, but she seems to have missed your heart, running straight through the wall, leaving a Quinn-shaped hole right in the middle of your chest.

Clearing your throat, you push her legs off your lap and stand. Quinn tries to say something, tries to stop you from leaving, but you don't listen, more focused on dashing off into the night in a mixture of humiliation and defeat.


End file.
